The ocean is a perfect metaphor,
alone, alive, unhappy, even content,
it almost feel's like that is what it's for,
but no-one can tell what I really meant.
Gently flowing onto a bay,
will make one think of a soothing scene,
but that is not what I am trying to say,
and that is what gives poetry its glowing gleam.
I can describe the hurt with waves,
or hate with a tsunami,
maybe the calmness within the caves,
as the ocean will will define me.

My words dribble, no, pool out,
as if I just had a shot of novacane,
and I have been numbed of all feeling.
But I know, this numbness will soon escape me,
and I will feel this hole I chewed through my lips,
and I will see the blood I spat on your face.

It's funny how,
the t.v. will tell,
us what to do.
Choose what to allow,
and conserve intel,
and say it's all for you.

Tell a lie,
disguised as truth,
to start a certain fad.
What will you buy,
to conserve your youth,
as you succumb to the ad.

They say "Live your life,
with self-control,
and proud to be yourself".
With a knife,
held to your soul,
on aisle three, top shelf.

I don't want to get out of my bed,
it's too cold,
there are so many things that I dread,
not everything is glitter and gold.
I don't want to get out of my bed,
there is so much sadness,
sometimes I'd rather be dead,
it'd be an escape from the madness.
I don't want to get out of my bed,
what will happen if I stay?
When I die, what will be said?
Only that I kept my fears at bay?

I should get out of my bed,
I may fear loss,
of love,
life,
happiness.
But if I don't get out of bed,
I may as well be dead.

Lukewarm love,
I'll have a cup of it, to start my morning.
I will not quit, I have done my mourning.
Our love is like leftover tea, putting a bad taste in my mouth
It's not worth being free, when leaving it would mean heading south.
To the hell with my life, which means being alone,
It's better to have a wife, and live life as a drone.
Keeping up with all the tricks, just to keep them content,
You'll always get your kicks, hoping your love will augment.
So we can live our time, pretending to be happy,
Living life as a mime, until we become too snappy.
But I'll have a cup of lukewarm love,
I guess I'm in love... Sort of?

Why is it people only read when it is about you,
although these poems are all I can tolerate.
Is it because my words are so true,
when my dislike will only consolidate.
Are you worth the pain which courses through my brain,
as readers pander for the hurt which you cause,
The only emotion that they enjoy is insane,
So to satiate their lust I reveal my flaws.

Lemme just say this,
before you go and take the ****.
I have feelings too,
some of which you never knew.
Words hit me just as hard,
although I react to them like a bard.
Quick on my feet with a rebuttal,
Although I have a knack of not being subtle.
I'm sorry for when I'm so cruel,
my words poor out like drool.
So why can't we both love, laugh and be calm,
because you are truly the best mom.