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MST Apr 2014
I wrote a poem today,
describing a sinister thought; about the pains of the heart.
Tormented until decay,
all emotions draining away.
And as I poured my soul into words,
a swift destruction overcame my art,
and in a second it was torn apart.
As I sat in broken shock,
the loss managed to open a lock.
One that kept my mind, heart and soul jailed,
but now the rusty lock has failed.
For I recognize this loss is the same as in life,
One molded with such effort; destroyed in strife.
And like I will write a poem I will love once more,
and with it I will grow at my very core.
MST Apr 2014
The future president was shot today,
they found him dead,
with a bullet in his head,
oh how I think of his mother's dread.
She will tell them all the hero he was,
and how he gave his life for a just cause,
nobody realizing the potential that was wasted,
due to a strife of old men,
over a violent thirst they had never tasted.
They will talk about him though, as if he was a friend,
as they say his sacrifice will help society mend,
then they step off their podium and into a room,
and they laugh about what the media will consume,
as they fatten their pockets,
with donations to their cause,
scheming with their caucus,
about all their new corrupt laws.
While a hundred miles away,
the boy's mother sits at his grave,
and as she leans down to pray,
the lord is thanked, for making her boy brave,
and most of all, for keeping the heathens at bay.
but far away in a different place,
there is another boy who was shot in the face,
with his mother also in tears,
and their government spouting the same fears.
MST Apr 2014
I was with a friend in a bar in downtown Prague,
It was one of those nights where we only want a couple drinks,
But that doesn't happen.
For we meet a few nice lads who enjoyed their drink,
And the girl they were with seemed like a little fink,
So we indulged ourselves in idle chatter; about hometowns and travels which we soon forget..
But my eyes remain upon this assumed *****,
But her lack of interest is causing a bore,
So I separate to find a new friend,
One who can keep me warm in my conceited mind,
For I do not care for the physical action,
As long as she is stimulated by my interaction.
But as the drinks add up,
And the bill gets higher.
I begin to lose faith in my ingenuity,
And begin to scoff at my insecurity,
So I find the nearest *****,
Who couldn't quite cut it before,
And I discuss how it was a glitch,
I didn't approach her at the door.
And we begin to talk,
About something I don't remember now,
But I'm sure it was smart and obscure,
Maybe about a meaningless cure..
But the night soon ends,
And I don't have my credit,
So we ****.
And leave.
And I wonder if she thought the same thing.
MST Apr 2014
I'm drunk,
and your sober,
but it doesn't change much; as our thoughts still parallel.
*****,
*******,
I love you still; as that is always the case.
It began with joy,
turning to contempt,
was this all your ploy?
or just a failed attempt.
Excuses are apparent in every conversation,
my love is like food, and we've begun to ration.
But isn't love like a communist dream,
of one giving up everything,
to make two supreme?
But when greed takes a step in the game,
it turns into a game of blame.
For we may be different in our acts,
such as me drinking a bottle; with no thought on impacts.
I don't recognize the alienation,
of one I viewed as a blossoming carnation,
as the red color drip from my flower,
and I realize our love has lost all power.
MST Apr 2014
I want to learn from the poet Charles Bukowski,
A man among men; with a bottle in hand,
a literate womanizer without any plan.
For he writes of growing old and the loss of love,
and his lonely words project his loss.
For a womanizer is the truest love,
one who wishes to love but is so afraid,
resorting to getting occasionally laid.
So I wanted to learn how to love, and lie; while smoking a cigarette,
and holding a bottle of wine,
but I don't want to be Mr. Bukowski,
for I wish to have love and lost,
but not at my vanities cost.
MST Apr 2014
I'm drunk,
and alone,
without you.
But that's not why I'm drunk,
for I am like a sponge,
and I must soak up all liquid I make contact with.
But that isn't the point of this makeshift poem,
it's that you are not here like you should be,
and it's causing me,
to think,
thus drink,
and think of stupid poems which do not adequately  describe my feelings of loss.
But I'm sure in time,
I will not need to drink; as you come back to me,
but now,
is not that time.
MST Apr 2014
I am a torn up sail,
having faced  hurricanes wrath.
You looked upon me like God's gift,
despite inside me being a rift.
Not one to turn from a dare,
you made me able to catch air.
Sewing and fixing like a grandmother would,
you put me together in a day or two,
I never thought that anyone could,
I guess I just needed you.
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