You told me you were terrified
of what was to come.
Well, if it is any solace to you,
I feel the same.

using but only a sword and daggers
in a battle of rifles and muskets
would be naught but suicide.

the barista asks
"milk? cream? sugar?"
i'd like cream and sugar,
please.
i don't take black,
it's far too strong.
i have a bit of a sweet tooth,
and it's always far more present
in the morning.

I glared, not cocky,
and pulled a card from the deck.
I hoped for a King,
but I pulled a Joker.
He laughed, too,
when I hoped for a Queen
and received only a Jack.
I hold no trump card up my sleeve,
nothing to save me,
not even an Ace.
I grimace, I surrender;
I accept my defeat.

I do not condone
your pitiful suggestions
for potential partners
that are so dull,
mundane.

you may have collected my tears
in a cork bottle
but my emotions,
however,
cannot be contained
in a jar
for I have far too many.

You bring me petunias
from your ****** garden,
hoping to hear
what you like.

I apologize,
for I may be broken,
but I am certainly not
a liar.

I cannot tell you
what you would like
to hear,
for I have been hurt
beyond repair.

you may have suffered
discrimination,
harsh words,
an offense towards your identity,
but remember
to remain
resilient.

It's a special something,
a rarity,
to find a soul as good
as yours.

i fluff my pillow,
but my anger is untamed,
my grip too strong,
the pillow rips
and out comes a shower
of goose feathers.

I'm not allowed to love you,
but that's alright,
because if I can be your friend,
I may still enjoy your presence.

Please,
assure me,
inform me,
is this really true?

How did
this happen, I ask?
How did I come here
from out of the blue?

How far
did I drift on the sea?
How fair did
I sail?

I cannot believe
that this is reality,
it feels to much
like a fairytale.

I come from a land
far, far away
where the grass is greener
and the trees are taller
the sun rises higher.

Please forgive me
if I cannot understand
your language
or your customs,
for I am not from here
I am a foreigner.

you don't gotta paint the sun,
but it would be nice.

my body may remain the same,
but i feel unexplicable pain
as though the skin and sinew,
the muscles and fascia
transforming me
into the monster that I am.

you're gone now,
but it wasn't a waste of time.
thank you, truly,
for the love you offered me.

My heart was shattered
before my very eyes,
each piece tainted
beyond repair.
Thus, I'll use a needle and thread
to sew my heart back together
making a mismatched masterpiece,
like a quilt.

you have a peculiar, welcoming scent,
but your love is beautifully rough
like leather.

An unlikely pair,
a ***** scent at the nape of your neck
as I pull you into an embrace;
you smell of spearmint and oranges.

The longest day of the year,
can I handle it?
Will I survive,
decaying in reality,
for so long?

There are phases in your life,
a constant change on the daily,
and by night
the moon shifts with you
in all of its glorious phases.

You no longer
serve a purpose
because all you are
is an anchor around my ankle
dragging me down,
drowning me in pity
for your miserable soul.

the rain smashed against glass,
trying to penetrate the shield,
only to drip down
in a gloomy failure.

a teacup in my hand
is warm, steamy.
i sip the earl grey with a sigh,
looking at the continuous dewdrops
falling icily from the sky.

the dragonfly treads lightly
on pure waters,
its body a brilliant indigo
on an azure blue lake.

I knew a girl,
Annie,
she lived by the countryside
away from the busy bustle
and loud stirrings of an engine.
Somewhere in which
she could appreciate birdsong.
She had a pond,
one that I visited often.
Unlike the reflection
one sees in puddles,
the pond held a hint of joy
in its still water.

A penny or coin
of copper, silver or gold
flipped into a fountain
with the promise of a granted wish,
a claim of the impossible.
And yet,
we sacrifice our currency
to pray for what we do not have
in hope that the fountain
will shower us with our desires.

you frequent the cotton field,
letting calloused, bare feet
feel the softness, like wool
and let the stream
tickle your toes.

I'd rather die by the hands of an assassin
using a rusty arrow or a dull blade
than allow you
to take my maidenhood.

you were too easy to break,
you didn't put up much of a fight,
i intimidated you quickly
and you shattered, like ceramic.

poison needn't come from a chalice,
it can come from words,
full of malice,
a strum of cords.

a reddening whip
on your back with a belt,
provoking hot tears
that could make copper melt.

I tried to explore
what was beyond this world.
I made tracks
made only of wax.
Steps and steps
made of wax, not wicks.
Alas, it was all in vain,
destroyed not by wind or rain.
As I got close to the sky,
I swear I could fly,
until the sun melted my path;
it was the repeated aftermath.

If I defy
the word, rather,
the lies
of my superior,
my opinion is defined as
politically incorrect.

To be a sinner
or a saint,
it's a picture
they paint.

They scare us
into submission,
it's not much
of our decision.

It doesn't matter though,
we're all the same,
we are all greedy
and seek riches and fame.

you're sweet,
your soul dented
with every cruel poke
to your heart.
Yet, you remain so,
very so sweet.
Sort of like
honeycomb.

A white fabric,
a curtain, perhaps?
I'm not sure.
It's covered with dust
that floats in the air
of the sunlit room
as I pull it off of my most
prized possesion.
Just the same as I remember;
ivory keys in perfect shape,
ebony keys in between.
A black glaze painted expertly
on fine sprucewood.
The keys are cold
against my fingertips
as they drift mindlessly,
creating song.

I have acquired messy handwriting
over the years,
so difficult to read,
to comprehend.
Similar to a code,
but definitely not as interesting.
I envy the wispy lines of ink on parchment
that can only belong
to a calligrapher.

On the brink of tears,
it's nearly here;
The end of it all,
it's in my palm;
Metal on my fingers,
I'll pull the trigger;
Will I go blissfully,
will anyone miss me?
Only time will tell,
so I bid you farewell;
Now is my time,
I will finally die.

Your knowing eyes,
they analyze;
Your curious mind,
ever blind;
Your vast intellect,
a grin of neglect;

You can see,
that may be;
You can spy,
but you will cry;
You can watch,
but you'll be a deathwatch;

You cannot be detective,
it takes the right perspective;
You cannot complete this task,
it would be too much to ask;
You cannot realize,
but you'd be traumatized;

You'd get quite a scare,
you couldn't bear;
It's quite a sight,
you'd get quite a fright;
Playing detective,
it's never fair;
Playing detective,
now that's rare.

Let us drink mead
before the army we lead!

Let us drink port
before we trample a field of lungwort!

Let us drink ale
before we hear the melody of the nightingale!

Let us drink,
soldiers,
to a battle we will win!

My body is ever present,
my voice speaking
a melancholic melody.

Yet, if I am here,
why do I feel a fog of nothingness
lick my feet?

Why is my throat
unable to produce any sound,
my lungs choking on oxygen
as I try to breathe?

How is my body alive,
but my eyes dead,
my soul stuck in an inevitable twilight,
a limbo?

Will I be found,
saved,
or sacrificed?

He wore the finest leather gloves,
held a hammer of steel,
sported dead eyes.
He had witnessed countless deaths,
far too many,
caused by the very weapons
he crafted blindly.

You place your blade
in flames,
letting them like your weapon
send white heat across the core.
Pressing it to your skin,
the steel burns a scar to your arm
as a symbol of victory
in the time of war.

The flaming, glorious mirth in your iris'
as you place your dirk to the throat of the adversary
as you contemplate whether you should send him to death,
or await submission.
In your sporran,
bullets destined to be loaded and shot from a musket
lie, a dead weight,
reluctantly used.
You let the adversary flee,
with warning,
for a proud warrior you may be,
but willing to accept a change of heart.

The chagrin overrides
my attempt to no longer hurt;
the burning sensation in my chest
soars through my body
and has salty, burning tears
stream down my face
like waterfalls.

Fear will consume any who remain vulnerable,
Eternal ****** in the presence of death,
An inevitable fate to all who call themselves human,
Reminds us to cherish the little and lots that we have,
Lest we choose greed over graciousness,
Endless envy over gratitude,
Senseless with sadness until one sees the light,
Something we could all discover.

My mind, and all the knowledge and wisdom it holds.
My body, and all the scars of strength strewn across my skin.
My soul, and all the acceptance and love it holds.

I am at peace,
I am aligned
with all three crucial virtues;
you dare not show me your battle cry,
for I am a triple threat.

An evolution of technology
has created a source of history,
information, questions
at your fingertips.

When technology and machines
begin to perish
will we thrive,
or suffer technical difficulties?

if you dare speak ill
of my body and soul,
your opinion will forever remain
incorrect,
in my opinion.