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.

I let it all out,
put right in front.
I just want to pout,
and be very blunt.
It's been taken away from me like wind blowing money away,
what really get's at me is I don't even have a say.
So I let it all out,
with a really loud shout,
Nobody listens,
so I let it all out.

I like to write as if I'm sensitive and caring,
and yet I'm filled with conceited thoughts such as of what I'm wearing.
I look into the stars and pretend that there's more,
then I can only think of who'll be my next *****.
I'm supposed to let the words of love and care flow out,
but it appears my heart has taken a different route.
I want to believe that I can think beyond such simple joys,
only to realize my head is filled with devious ploys.

To ****, to feel, to ******, to flail,
my mind is filled with such trivial hail.
If only I could change and be more sophisticated,
but my whole life I've only procrastinated.
Thinking of when I will be a man,
when I haven't realized I've only ran.

You're a stupid ******* ****,
if I truly must be blunt.
The epitome of ****,
you put me in a fit.
A heartbreaking little *****,
I'd love to find you in a ditch.
You can go get ******,
or preferably self-destruct.
I love you.

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 lost it some say,
when I went away,
I lost it she said,
after we were in bed,
I lost it they spoke,
when I didn't laugh at their joke.
But I did not lose it,
it just was not there,
I created a facade for them,
but now I do not care.
I am a butterfly coming out of its cocoon,
flying high above the fears,
during a midsummer June.
I did not lose it,
when I turned you down,
I did not lose it,
when I did not drown.
I swam to the top,
and took a breath of fresh air,
and swam to the shore,
and dodged every snare.
When my feet felt the sand,
pushing between my toes as I would stand,
I did not look back into the ocean,
for I had passed that hurdle,
and am now running in full motion.

I'm getting tired,
for you are not that light,
my back is breaking.
I carry you like a mother monkey does,
despite your sagging layer of love,
except I no longer feel the strength of my heart,
and so my back is breaking.

"What is the world coming to?" They say,
******, ****, stealing, and lying.
"How did we let it come to this?" They shout,
betrayal, lust, spying and dying.
Oh sweet ignorance,
is it not such bliss,
have you not seen this work was always like this?
We have killed for years,
while drinking victim's tears,
playing on fears,
to control our peers.
Murdering many for the sake of few,
under the facade that "it was always for you!".
But when will we turn the lights on,
and illuminate the room,
finally seeing our bloodied hands,
and our selfish doom.
When will we stop pretending it is for love,
and no longer say it is for a power that is above.
When will we look into the mirror's eyes,
and see that we have become what we despise.

It is overdone to write a love poem,
speaking of how the clouds separate when you are around,
and how your voice is a heavenly sound.
It is overdone to write a love poem,
talking of how your heart is pure,
and how I am sick and you are the cure.
It is overdone to write a love poem,
but that is what I have done,
and compared to you there are none.

I want to write a poem
with similes, metaphors and so on.
one that can describe your face, hair
or even your smell.
I will create words
which make it seem as if you are perfect in every way
so that the reader can feel some form of emotion.
But I can't do that.
It isn't because I'm incapable
I've studied and felt, and described with meaning.
It's because I don't want to
Because you don't deserve it.

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.

You're a ******,
you're a ****,
essentially everything I don't like.
Living your life,
with separate values, dreams, goals,
yet who is going to save your soul?
You love other men,
while I'm for women,
you drink alcohol,
which is a sin too,
but what hurts me the most...
Is I am not free like you.

I do not judge you,
for who you are,
or what you do,
for I am not the judge nor the jury,
I am merely the executioner.
Whom everyone knows holds a bit of fury,
although as I look upon your face,
and see the facade melting off it,
your guilt shows your disgrace,
and as my heart judges your actions,
and my soul decides upon your fate,
it is my mind that must do the transactions,
and executing isn't its best trait.

I hate you,
thus I hate your success,
while I hope for you to drown,
you merely float.
While I hope for you to be struck by lightning,
you only walk through the rain,
as I watch you and hope you trip and fall,
you leap and bound.
Meanwhile,
I lay here soaking wet,
where I fell into a puddle,
about to drown,
only to die by lightning.

Let me cut your wrists and **** myself,
releasing you from this mental prison,
where you believe you cannot escape.
So I will climb into your head,
stab you until I am dead,
then I sneak away through the wounds gape.
As I try to run away,
out of sight and out of mind,
I will drown in your blood,
when my cure makes me blind.

The beauty of Audrey Hepburn would appear to have no parallel,
With luscious eyes and soft white skin as smooth as caramel,
From the class, and the elegance, that so few have,
Combined with the innocence of a newborn calve,
La femme parfaite,
society may say.
Although she does not make me laugh, love and stand above,
Because Audrey pales in comparison to my love.

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.

This pressure is like a waterfall,
as I topple from the force into the water.
I'm submerged in everything you've created,
and drowning in your dissatisfaction.
I can feel myself within your thrall,
as you begin this bloodless slaughter,
my lungs begin to feel weighted,
and I am unable to do any action.

But I have been tossed in a lake before,
and was expected to drown in the pool,
all thought I would die in the bathtub,
but luckily I know how to swim.
I will collect myself out of this mental war,
and not be played as a fool,
and it will be my turn to drub,
and I will make it to the water's brim.

Let it go,
let it go,
just drop it out,
in the snow.
Let it cool,
don't be a fool,
it does not matter,
to look cool.
For if you live,
with hidden hate,
you will realize,
when it is too late.
If you hold,
that anger inside,
letting it grow,
letting it preside.
You will only hurt,
the ones that you love,
so let it all go,
and rise up above.

Let me have a drink,
I don't want responsibilities,
I don't want to think.
Just let me have a ******* drink,
drown myself in my sorrow,
keep me from thinking of tomorrow.
For if I numb my mind enough,
and drown my sorrows in a beer,
I can accomplish anything that is rough,
while making my mind bright and clear.

Or is that what I tell myself,
as I pop open that bottle,
telling myself my mind will be clear.
And with each drink I gain confidence,
believing that I gain competence,
like a man who fought no wars,
yet surrounds himself with ******.
Speaking of stories which I never knew,
and thinking of the next lie I will brew.
So do I need this drink to live?
or merely just to have a story to give?

Lie to me and say you love me,
tell me how I fill your heart,
how I was the one to give it a kick-start
Lie to me and say you love me,
tell me how I saved your soul,
how I set fire to the coal.
Lie to me and say that you love me,
even when I was far away,
you would never wander and play.
Lie to me and say that you love me,
tell me that I make your heart ache,
as you try to hide your mistake.

In my head,
then it is gone,
no way for it to re spawn.
I want to recreate this life,
"edit" things out with a knife,
cut out the snakes in my veins,
but I just do it in vain,
I try to hold them in my mouth,
but everything just goes south.
The more I stab, mutilate to "edit",
I merely eliminate every bit of credit,
as I try to rectify,
I only manage to petrify.
So I must learn to walk with my head up high,
let the bumps pass on by,
like a bird soaring home,
I cannot stop,
I must roam.
When life tosses me down,
and lets the snakes slither out,
I cannot just sit and pout,
I must walk on without a doubt.

We were once like lightning and thunder,
explosive and fearsome,
creating such fire.
But like all good storms we came to an end,
and I fear that the rain has come to a drizzle,
and I not longer have a spark to lend,
so now our shock is merely a fizzle.

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.

Laying here like a stone in a stream,
water rushes over, wearing me away.
I attempt to stay and be resilient,
but I am dwindling in size,
and losing power.
I am lifted and sent along the stream,
crashing and tumbling so that I become obscene,
finally falling down the falls,
while I find myself at the bottom of the water,
content with myself, despite the calls,
watching the rest be drawn to the slaughter.

Come to me,
let us create some controversy,
despite what we say, we do not fill our hearts with love,
while promising one another our soul,
we push away with a shove.
For we are like gasoline and fire,
and yet we are shocked by what always transpires.
An explosion which is filled with rage,
trapping each other into a cage,
while our minds burn to a cinder,
the final goal is only to hinder,
for water will not douse this fire,
as I call you a ***** and you call me a liar.
These feelings I create because you provoke,
are the feelings which I have always spoke,
So don't be surprised,
when our love goes up in smoke.

Looking out that dreary window,
as the birds flock together,
scavenging for food.
I can see their haste to grab every bit,
snapping at each other,
having a fit.
As that green grass grows,
giving them food,
they forget their qualms,
from the winter feud.
The point where they would cut out each others throats,
in order to eat,
going for every last bit of meat.
They may not dine upon flesh,
but they will do their best to steal whats fresh.
And within the smallest bird I see myself,
beaten out by the strongest crow,
but as I watch this little bird die,
I question whether the crows will let him run dry.
And as they continue to ****** up every worm,
the little bird lays there and begins to squirm.
He goes off and leaves to a faraway place,
one where he can eat alone,
without any disgrace.
And while this may be the perfect metaphor for me,
I only lie here,
wanting to plea.
So as I grow thinner and faint,
I think of the bird,
who left without complaint.
What causes this restraint,
which follows every complaint,
with this picture I paint,
of how I am no saint.
I bring myself down,
making myself alone,
when I could have gone out,
and let others see how I have grown.
But instead I lie on my back in my bed,
until I hear a tapping in my head.
It is the little bird who has come back to haunt me,
tapping insistently,
always flaunting.
Of how it is now the biggest bird,
it goes and eats whenever a worm is heard,
and as I see how big is has become,
I can also see how I am numb,
and it has caused me to live under societies thumb,
never free,
never to run.
Because I did not do as the bird has done.

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.

Speak,
as if you know what you are saying.
Let it roll off the tongue,
******* like a Dung-beetle's ****,
and let me drink it up like a lapdog.
It tastes like heaven from where I sit,
not by comparison,
but lack of.

Look at us,
Thinking we are a sophisticate,
so intricate,
and yet we ***** about what we have not anticipated.
Look at the last person you saw,
picking out their every flaw,
noticing how they are a *******,
yet we are not a part of it.
They have lives which differ from ours,
we are the extras in their hours,
they do not care for you,
just as you do not care too.
We eat the same nutrients,
read the same rudiments,
believe we are better,
because of our new sweater.
What we do not see,
is we all have a plea,
we watch the same ****,
have times to mourn,
act as judge and jury,
to everyone else's storm.
You are a god,
in your own right,
you deserve to be awed,
because you fight the good fight.
Yet when anything falls,
you look around and blame the walls,
the one's which restrict and keep you from joy,
the one's you constructed,
behind this foolish ploy.
So grow the **** up,
and recognize your faults,
or grow on up,
and dance alone in this waltz.

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.

I was lost,
within the wild ,
I am lucky,
you like to climb mountains.

The sunlights shadow gleams upon your face,
as if God had crafted it himself,
yet he took longer than just six days,
because you were not some model on the shelf...
Your skin stole what smoothness silk once had,
and your hair rolls like thunder off your shoulders
your voice would make birds jealous and mad,
while I merely listen and crave.
I hunger for your words to fill me,
fill my love's insatiable thirst,
to hold me is to set me free,
but I must find you first.

Lost are we,
in this infinite abyss.
An idea in our heads,
of what is pure bliss.
Lost are we,
in this complex maze,
losing ourselves,
just to feel that praise.
Lost are we,
doing what we are told,
reaching for that goal,
until we turn cold.
Lost are we,
as we die here all alone,
dreams are forgotten,
and never written in stone.

I am so scared to die,
but not because it is the end,
because saying goodbye,
and leaving you to mend.
When I think of my life passing,
I do not think of my goals gone,
or any lost opportunity.
I think of  you waking up at dawn,
without my arms for security,
or the warmth from my body,
the safety which I had embodied.
I think of how you will not laugh before bed,
or dance in the living room,
you will sit and think of how I am dead,
and how your heart is filled with gloom.
I'm so scared of death,
but not just for me,
the idea of not hearing your breath,
would leave me lost at sea.

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.

You were stolen from me,
from under my nose,
I was not even looking,
I deserve it I suppose.
To think that I took you for granted,
having you by my side,
I used you as a source,
of my undeserved pride.
Now I have traveled to see you again,
and you lay next to me,
and I am free from this pain,
but to lose you soon,
would be blasphemy.
I will cut out the throat of any who come,
expecting to steal what I have won,
your heart is mine and I will keep it that way,
and with this love, your pain will allay.

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.

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?

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.

The kindness which you have covered me,
Is like protection from the ice cold sea.
"You ****, you're weak" is all I've been told
I began to worry about life when I'm old.
But you stepped in with your words full of softness and care,
And briskly reminded me you'd always be there.
Inspiring, sensual, genius and lustrous,
Are not any words which describe you with justice.
You are but the drive within my heart,
That a runner feels at a races start.
Or perhaps you are the light in my soul,
Keeping me driving and never quite full.
Of all the things that you do there is one special thing for me,
You want me to be me and that is all I can be.

You are clouds of mustard gas,
and I just released an exasperated gasp,
fill my lungs with this air,
choke me as if you don't care.
Now I'm dead, on the floor,
you dissipate and I see you know more.
Is this how it ends with a death like this?
I've wet myself and the room smells like ****.
When they find me it will be a sight to see,
laying on the floor,
no where to flee,
but I do not care anymore,
as my soul is gone from me.
So let us realize how I died,
because of the things I spied,
your love choking my lungs,
when I saw you swapping tongues.
But now, it is not my place to think,
instead I remember your every kink,
and despite my cold dead body causing a stink,
you still find a way to crush my soul,
as it tries to leave the room,
you block every escape,
making this my tomb,
you *****, you *****, you snake,
can you not see everything you take?
I am lifeless, dead and gone,
blown up from your bomb,
but now it's done and you move on,
but I am dead from your con.
So I move on.

You think you are someone of great strength in mind,
as you belittle all the people around you,
for the sake of not appearing kind,
because it was the only thing you knew.
Taught to be tough and a big boy,
you can go and use a gun as a toy,
become accustomed to the ability to destroy.
As you see nothing wrong from stealing the light in one's eyes,
being the artist of their demise,
as you ruin their families lies.
BANG, BANG, BANG,
goes the gun in your hand,
over a dead body you stand,
just as you planned.
Put that hit on that sonofabitch,
it went off without a hitch,
now you a man who put someone in a ditch.
The only sacrifice is morality,
but you are so young, you don't see the brutality,
only the gangster mentality,
so you can live in the violent normality,
not realizing that you have lost touch with reality.
But that is a life that no longer belongs,
replaced by coke, *** and bongs,
you will never know that what you do is wrong,
until you hear the bell's gong,
and it is you who is gone.

My back hurts,
from the weight that it carries,
the kilos of love which you dropped upon me,
combined with the grams of hate I still hold,
mixed with the pounds of guilt I created,
on top of the sadness stuck within my heart.

My back hurts,
from the things I have done,
to what I have said,
it melts onto my back,
and out of my head.
But you are there to lift me when I fall,
carry my shoulders so that I stand tall,
remove the weight into your heart,
and give my own a strong quick start.

My back hurts,
but your back must hurt too,
as you carry me upon your back,
combining it with the hurt within you.
So teach me the proper form,
I know the weight never goes away,
but you can help me calm the storm,
and maybe I can help you someday.

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.

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.

Upon the cliff I stand alone,
after facing such harsh weathers,
standing up with a mighty grown,
as my clothes are torn to tethers.
Looking down at the blood I have shed,
the wounds which have healed,
the scars blanketing my head.
They are merely God's surprises,
never truly a danger,
coming from life's disguises,
from a lover to a stranger.
And yet you are different in a different way,
with words as smooth as silk,
and a voice like a mockingbird.
You wrap the wounds of my heart,
which the sweetest phrase.
I love you flew into my head,
and set my heart ablaze...


This fire burned every scar,
melting my skin and heart,
removing every tiny mar,
and letting me restart.

You make me able to work a nine to five job,
one where I sit and hate life,
while becoming a slob,
with you as my wife.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
one where I come home tired,
with a silent sob,
about how I will probably be fired.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
where I never travel far,
because my back has begun to throb,
and I quit wishing upon my shooting star.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
where I never see art,
and that is just the start.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
because you are vacuum that cleans me up,
the light at the end of the day which revives me,
the foreign land which I have not seen,
and the beautiful tapestry which puts me in awe.
You make me able to work a nine to five job,
because you are everything,
that a nine to five job is not.

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.