When I write of love,
When I speak of love,
it is like, I was blessed,
from above.
For I have had hardships,
and more one-sided flips,
than contact, with your lips.
It is like an apple in a tree,
which is just out of reach,
I can see it with me,
just as sweet as a peach.
But until I can climb to the tallest branch,
I must I must grab hold of the bark,
and with each step, my wound will stanch,
and I will pull myself from the dark.

To please and appease,
the coming storms breeze,
we shackle ourselves to the ground,
and prepare for the pound.
We do not stand before the storm,
or leave to fight this outrageous norm,
instead we sit and take the hit,
and watch as our throats are slit.
What is the point of life without glory,
or the opportunity to create our story,
we are subdued by the never-ending rain,
and with it comes immense pain.
But if we were to just grab an umbrella,
and continue writing our story,
yes our pages may get wet,
but what is life, without breaking a sweat?

Here I sit,
an American,
on a balcony in Spain,
with a French lover,
and nothing to say.
How un-poetic of me,
that I am not the epitome,
of what a poet should be.
While I should describe the love of my life,
or contemplate life's last words,
I sit content with no strife,
and stare at the birds.

Tear me open,
So that no one can first.
Reach inside of me,
and pulled out my crushed innards,
don't let a bit fall free,
and then plunge back inwards.
Keep on feeding until you are full,
and then tie me up around my throat.
Save me on the side until later,
Or just forget I am there.

Brought down,
brought to the ground,
treated different because I'm brown,
like some stray in the pound.
Tell me officer,
what did I do,
treated like I am from a flying saucer,
by trying to be like you.
So as you subject my face,
and drive my head into the dirt,
make me into a disgrace,
in in front of the people you said I would hurt.
So keep your title and name,
and cling to that moment of fame,
where you saved the civilians from demise,
and make me the object of their despise.
But someday I will rise,
and my people will reach the skies,
but we will not stop there,
for within us there is no fear,
to rise above is our goal,
and we will not stop until we are whole.

We are together,
just sitting side by side,
no idea of what the other one hides.
But as we hold one hand,
and the other is clenched,
meanwhile our thoughts are drenched.
It is as if we both were water boarded,
while looking into each other's eyes,
with each drip comes feelings of despise.
But who was it that dropped this water unto me,
was it you or someone who I could not see,
the only thing that stayed within my mind,
is the thought of how you used to be so kind.
And I forget that you have your own thoughts,
they become disarray while I try to understand,
as I am caught up in trying to connect the dots,
but to connect them I have much to small of a strand.
So you cut it with that piercing gaze,
and you put me into a daze,
for I hate you and you hate me,
but how was it that this came to be?

I lay here with the blood falling out of me,
drip, drip, drip.
The sound echoing through my brain,
as with each little drop I got a bit more insane,
drop, drop, drop,
there is the sound of my life in a bucket,
used to feed the youth, as my life is gone,
so **** it.

So here I am caught between acceptance and denial,
so tell me god, where did you put my file?
Am I the man who goes without a plan,
to find himself becoming a fan?
Or will I lead my life with questions unanswered,
as I attempt to decipher your hansard.
For I do not understand your politics,
as you are a power so high above me,
for your meaning I cannot often see,
so how am I supposed to decide where to be?

A politician is a man,
who will feed a starving child.
And as he hands that apple down,
appearing to try and please,
while looking to gain renown,
he is passing on a disease.
But with his goodwill,
no one will suspect him,
in the other closed hand is a pill,
which he will say will protect them.

The artistic industry devours us alive,
as it feeds off our drive to strive.
And as we mix our blood sweat and tears,
it merely grows bigger,
and plays off our fears.
But we do not quit the feeding,
as we cut ourselves wide open,
with our securities so misleading,
as we find ourselves surviving like pigs.
Eating up whatever we can get,
until we find ourselves trapped again,
fallen into someones debt,
while living in this pen.

To lose you,
is to lose my mind.
For you are the caretaker of my sanity,
as I need my daily dose.
Of love.

I'm drunk,
and writing poetry,
about the idea of love, lust and the pursuit of happiness.
But to get out of this funk,
and to stop writing poetry,
I need to pursue happiness.

The calm ocean engulfs you and I as we sink down below,
holding hands and dropping down as the pressure overwhelms,
with each passing second the tension starts to grow,
and you attempt to take the helm.
You begin to kick,
rising up to the air,
but I fall like a brick,
and all you do is stare.

I am looking off my balcony down into the street,
the occasional passerby looks up and meets my gaze,
only to drop it down to his feet,
as my own stays.
I begin to think of where he is headed,
to what lover he will meet,
perhaps he is already wedded,
but going off to cheat.
Possibly the man just committed a crime,
of ****** or ****,
while hes running from time.

I think of him again,
the next day on the road,
thinking of the worst that I can,
until I slowed.
I looked above me,
and saw a man looking down with blame,
I knew what he could see,
as I had seen the same.

As you sit next to me,
under this golden apple tree,
above us are the golden crisp,
while the rotted are at our feet.

Looking back on when I died,
and the things which I would hide,
I don't think that anyone cried,
on the day that I died.
The moment before my life ended,
I did not look back on my life,
as there are so many that I had offended,
as my decisions caused strife.
I cared for myself with only selfish desire,
pushing my family and friends to leave,
with my habit as a compulsory liar,
coupled with my drive to deceive.
With no one in my life to love,
leading me to live in a tomb,
hoping to be saved by someone above,
as I die here alone in this room.

I found myself today looking at the first sign of spring,
the quiet blow of the wind introduced me to the silence,
one I had known but forgotten.
As the sun glared into my eyes; illuminating the scenery to create the false pretense of tranquility.
But behind my dirt smeared window I can see the shadows,
as a mouse gets eaten alive by a hawk,
looking to explore, only to find the gallows,
and with its decision, it's fate had a lock.
So while I see this comforting sky,
and the potential to fly,
this fear keeps me in,
from finding what could be within.

Are you cold?
Here, take this jacket; I made it from my sweat and blood,
Sewed the skin together with my veins,
ignoring all the pains.
As I piece together my skin bit by bit,
it falls apart with the slightest slit.
So be gentle with this jacket; it is held together by what holds me together.
So don't be the one to tear me apart.

When I look back on what I used to be,
how I used to see,
and when you were with me.
I get a confused nostalgic feeling,
of when we were together,
and I realize why I am still healing,
after the stormy weather.
I recall how I saw you in such bright light,
how I thought of you as downright stunning,
despite every word turning to a fight,
which put me on the road to running.
The mind is a fickle thing,
how it conceives pain to be love,
it overlooks every sting,
as a good sign from above.
As always, after the initial shot,
the shot which fills your head with life,
wears off as things get hot,
as I was stabbed with that searing knife.
For I was not expecting a shank,
right in your gut, or heart, or wherever,
but as you realize, your heart sank,
as you watch the ties sever.
Luckily, the mind is strong,
and with the help of love,
I will go on.

Here I am just sitting with you,
looking at the sky as everything turns blue,
What should we do? What should I do?
With you.
We take a drive in your car,
we won't plan on going far,
but we are, and here we are.
A million miles away in this old, beat up car.
You've always been my pretty young wife,
yeah, sure, it caused some strife,
standing on the edge of a knife,
but isn't that the meaning of life?

The humid incumbency of my bed is overwhelming; it doesn't help to have your arm on me.
Warm, moist and overwhelming due to the slightest temperature change; which is complimented by the staunch smell of sweat.
I am awake, barely,  as the sun slowly introduces dawn to this uncharacteristic heat.
I have something to do, somewhere to be, but the warmth is containing me.
I think about a number of things, predominantly this woman lying here,
one who I am meant to love, hold high and above; yet I fear.
The room characteristically describers her overwhelming temper,
hushed, surrounding, weakening; as it layers over your mind,
seducing it until you become blind.
As these realizations drip upon me like my sweat drips off my nose,
continuous, subtle, and not enough to wipe away,
yet, bothersome enough to impose.
So as I lie here, sweating, stinking and sweltering; I wonder how long?
How long until my sweat will drown me.

I didn't learn much from her,
except what not to love, and to love travel.
It's too bad she wasn't worth the trip.

I knew I was in love; when you told me someone was above,
and I believed you.
I knew I was in love; when you woke me up for a walk,
and I went on the walk.
I knew I was in love; when you first yelled at me,
and I apologized.
I knew I was in love; when you said that you would be leaving,
but you did stay,
just in another way.

Let me tie my own noose please,
for I know how I like it,
tied with what I call a tease,
and a loop as a ***.
For this is what hangs me,
not my failed work,
but my growing inhibitions.
And as I try to fix my sin,
and stop all repercussions,
my inner self pulls a grin,
and I find myself wiht a concussion.
I don't know where I am,
I don't know how I got here,
but there I am, in a jam,
with a woman biting my ear.
It isn't as if I don't try to have control,
for a perfect set of gifts is not my only goal,
but the simple distraction,
has caused me to faction,
debating over my hearts contraction,
while my body only looks for action.
So what can I do? With these corrupt counterparts,
working together, to tear us apart?
I can merely succumb to my soul,
as I don't have the strength to fight my bodies control.

*******, you stupid *****,
you took my heart, and threw it in a ditch.
You didn't care as you said you loved me,
as it shows in the way in which you got up to flee.
Running like a coward; no thought of repercussions,
only thinking of yourself; avoiding all discussions.
So as you go off and you **** everything that will move,
torturing yourself, thinking you have something to prove.
But you don't, and that is where went off-key with this song,
and with each different guy you lose a brand new thong,
because you believe *** is love and that is where you are wrong.

For I can find a ***** in fifth street,
and **** her until she forgets her name,
but doing so is not any feat,
as she has seen millions of men as they came.
Do you think she loves each man who throws her a bone?
Do you think she cares for his heartfelt confessions?
or do you not recognize that she is living her life alone.
These are business sessions; as she is the object that is sold at the concessions.
So respect yourself and learn what love is, as you will soon find, it is more than being just his.
For love is what will set you free,
and the only thing to make you consistently happy,
and you can love and loss and again learn to love,
and your broken wings will help you fly above,
and sooner or later, when push comes to shove,
you will learn, that *** isn't love.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hey you, let's get it on,
but first let me hit thing ****,
for the sinful lust of obscuring reality,
will help us fight the feelings of mortality.
As we have lived with restrictions upon our souls,
while handed down our hollow goals,
circumventing our wills,
with those little red and white pills..
So is it wrong to want a reprieve?
And not always have a job to receive,
whether it's life's responsibilities,
or our peers hostilities,
sometimes I just need a break,
and while society asks me sleep,
it helps me stay awake.

To get the attention which I crave,
must a be a materialist slave,
******* out to the highest bidder,
get me a look and I'll never reconsider,
being within this self-centered life,
filled with someone's drama, love and strife,
my friends are the magazines on the stand,
as I judge them on which is more tanned.
I used to have hopes, dreams and aspirations,
I was original and had my own foundations,
but as I aged and my desires grew deep,
I began to follow with the other sheep,
social interaction was overrated,
I just need a like for my addiction to be sated,
for what's the use of a dear old friend,
when I've got a friend request to send.

I just want to sleep.
Please let me fall into a dark slumber,
one where I am by only what I wonder,
I can get away from all of the pain,
while finding comfort in the utterly insane.
To be attacked by a brain eating cow,
would be preferable to any politicians vow,
or maybe to travel, naked, in space,
would be preferable to societies disgrace.
Because we have stopped the comfort and care,
and pay attention to only what we wear,
as we become slaves to the newest song,
where we hear about how everything is wrong,
but we don't care; didn't you see Oprah's thong?
So yes, I would rather fight off giant slugs,
or realize that I can only walk on my head,
its better than societies drugs,
and its better than being dead.

When I am feeling alone, I walk in the grass,
I bear the wind as it blows, and watch time pass.
I remember the years which have left you and I,
and how we never had a proper goodbye.
We always spoke of how we'd stay friends,
now I see things through a corrective lens,
while we would laugh about simple little things,
I didn't realize how inhibited were my wings,
How you would make me feel like a king,
while secretly clipping my wing.
Waiting for me to step out of our nest,
attempt to fly, but falling at best.
So like unlike a bird which I strove to be,
I learned to use my feet, and chose to flee,
for while you hoped to hold on for long,
I soon found out,
I couldn't wait to be gone.

Make a joke,
laugh a little,
and antagonize the issue.
It's just a poke,
they are all so brittle,
she just needs a tissue.
"I haven't seen it",
"doesn't affect me".
Say what you want to make it fit,
and ignore the resounding plea,
"but she was all over him!",
the antagonists cry,
as you expect her to act on every whim.

I love sadness like I hate my poetry; as they both equate to only drawn out pain.

For my poetry is not like the art which I have grown accustomed to; nor is sadness similar to its depiction in media.
While writing can relinquish my heart into incoherent sentences, omitting me from pent up thought.
Yet, sadness fills me with pain,
allowing me to appreciate my emotional chain.
Teaching me how love and lust can create a chaos so spectacular,
while recognizing my poetry may not be very vernacular,

But that is okay,
because I don't really give a ****.

It was a bit ago when you left,
You see, it caught me off guard,
I never considered you capable of theft,
But when you stole my heart, I took it hard.

Think of a good title,
what is on the inside does not matter,
what is on the outside is vital,
so you'd best not get fatter,
as you are just a glossed over part of life.
and not noticeable unless there is strife.
So...
Think of a good title.

Come to me my dear,
and I will make things clear,
pushing you down the path,
into my sadistic wrath.
I'll let you believe what you want,
as I watch your naivety flaunt,
but there is a sinister thought,
which I hope you haven't caught,
and a horrible idea,
for which there is no panacea.

So follow me my sweet,
I'll be sure to watch you,
let me take you to my street,
as you believe the ******* I spew.
So don't you dare,
begin to trust me for a minute,
I'll harm every hair,
as my explicit thoughts are infinite.

He did not understand the storm within his mind; as his thoughts would turn towards humankind,
He thought of the hate within his life,
but his thoughts were pure,
as he analyzed the strife,
and contemplated a cure.
But behind the greatest intentions,
and all of man's creations,
there is a whirlwind of temptations,
which must be pushed in the right path.
But with all the greed and the hate,
and surrounded by sin's bait,
things will go awry,
as it is only fate.
So with his heart as pure as gold,
slowly melting as he gets old,
always doing as he's been told,
until his heart is covered in mold.
And with his distraught inside,
slowly going bad with age,
he realizes his dreams have died,
while living life out in a cage.

My dear, my love, my heart,
the thought of where you are tears me apart,
that when my thoughts go out to you,
they only die in that deep ocean blue.
So I build a ship which can fight the treacherous sea,
one which can withstand the crashing of the waves,
and with this ship we will be free,
and no longer held as one of love's slaves.

The love runs through my veins,
although currently I have a blood clot,
at a younger age I slipped through the chains,
although I fear I have finally been caught.
As these thoughts begin to swell up inside of my heart,
and my heart begins to slowly tear apart,
I realize there is no going back to the start.
I must rebuild and reset my shredded insides,
in an attempt to maintain these growing tides,
for the love building up in me cannot be contained,
which leads me to funnel my love to be drained.
But do not worry as it will not be wasted,
as I will drain it out into your soul,
and I will continue until my heart is fully basted,
or until we are whole.

Say something prolific; in an exasperated tone,
separating yourself from the everyday drone.
Over-indulge in your own self shame; as you ***** out your pride,
in an effort for someone to say your name.
You once loved yourself; although unaware that the love is lost,
while trying to prove something,
as your heart was the cost.

You let these stars fall upon you; as we accelerate to our eventual supernova,
gathering energy and heat,
which will lead to the most magnificent end,
but not before becoming a magnificent,
light.

As I sit, here alone, in this empty room,
I think of what we were,
I think of what we could have been.
When I walk, all alone, down that night time street,
I think of where you are,
I think of what you are doing.
Here I am, laying alone, sprawled out in my bed,
I think of where you once were,
I think of my emptiness within.
I am alive, alone, living without warmth,
I think of my inner scar,
I think of my undoing.

He looked her in the eye,
as he aimed at her head,
he was surprised when he began to cry,
after he shot her in the head.
Yet his body felt an irreplaceable joy,
as this abysmal feeling filled his mind,
for the recognition of pain is also the recognition of freedom.
He was no longer under siege like troy,
and he was no longer blind,
For the recognition of freedom, is also an act of treason.

Being a poet is a difficult job,
as it turns one into a slob,
with a false sense of security,
due to its obscurity.
For poetry is for the ones who feel,
not those who are afraid,
for every reader has a heart you must steal,
while stabbing your own with a blade.
But with these difficulties comes reward,
as the right words give a strong sense of satisfaction,
with poetry one will never be bored,
while giving one's mind a sense of traction.

Thank god I'm not a poet.

She was too blue,
the other was too red,
I like the color yellow,
you are a nice shade of sunlight,
and for me that is alright.