Many people rip on me for my “not-so-great” luck with Women.
But, jokes on them.

I’ve had some ***** before.

Until I had to get rid of them after I discovered I was allergic to felines.

The saying is "Always live your life in the fast lane."
But how can I do that if my life has faded like smoke through a keyhole?
It is blank like a notepad on a little girl's desk.
The girl who is constantly bullied for the Bell's Palsy that consumes her face.
The notepad that sits on her desk that she has ripped pages upon pages upon pages out of.
Pages that read words that are thrown at her everyday.
****, *****, *****, loser.
Pages that have drawings of her and that one guy she longs for, but that one guy longs for her disappearance.
My life is like that blank note pad.
The only thing it retains is it's last message telling the world "Goodbye."

It's funny how nowadays if we see someone we know,

We nod our head up.

And if we see someone we don't know,

We nod our head down.

But when we see ourselves in the mirror,

We don't know what to do.

Dead fish do not move.
They lay there,
Dead.

Dead fish do not breathe,
They lay there,
Dead.

Dead fish do not speak.
They lay there,
Dead.

But the dead fish do wander.
They wander around fish heaven,
Or fish hell.

Dead fish's minds, lasting longer than their physical bodies do,
Explore crevices of the universe that people aren't even familiar with.
Well, at least not people from Earth.

Dead fish not only wander, but they do this thing that sounds like wander and is spelled like wander but is called "wonder."
Their minds forever wonder about things.
Like seaweed, ah the good ol' days of eating seaweed.

Or maybe dead fish wonder about what life is like now that they are gone.
They might wonder if it's raining, or if it's sunny.
But they're fish, so what the hell matters if it's raining or sunny?

You see, dead fish also do this thing.
It sounds much like wander and wonder but it's different.
The thing is "nothing."

Well, I assume "nothing" would sound like the words "wander" and "wonder" to a dead fish.

Considering dead fish can do nothing.
They just lay there,
Dead.

But we are not dead fish.
We are alive people, well at least some of us.
We can do things.

Like ride a rollercoaster, or eat a sandwich.
We can watch televisions shows probably longer than most other human beings can.
We can write poetry books that only five and a half people will read.

(One of those hits home for this author.)

We can go out and live lives livelier than those dead fish.
We can live for those dead fish.
We can wander and wonder and do nothing all at the same time.

We are all given life to live and lives to breathe life into.
Alive humans and dead fish.
At one point in time, we all have the opportunity to be someone who does something maybe even with somebody.

Alive humans and dead fish.
Dead humans and alive fish.
Alive humans and alive fish.
Dead human and dead fish.

Creatures have beautiful and blank canvases on which they can spill beautiful masterpieces on.
Or even blank masterpieces.

It just depends on who you're asking to paint you a picture.
An alive human, or a dead fish.

Both have some type of story to tell.

Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.

And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.

It’s my heart.

And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.

And here’s a spoiler:

*It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.

I've never been good at coloring in between the lines.

Because I leave no space in between these lines that are made,

When the blade molests my skin.

I house thunder inside of these bones.
I contain lightning inside my heart.
I contain raindrops in my veins.

I am the storm.

But, do not worry dear plebeians, I do not strike on dark days of gray,
Only on dark days of pain.

I pour down on the suffering, to wash away all of their troubles.
And I'd rather have a lifetime of saving rain than a constantly-glowing sun.

Because the Sun is just too dim compared to the fire that burns inside of me.

The listening stopped a while ago.
It’s like the monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just didn’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears.
It wasn’t always like that, though.
You used to deliver information to my being like you were the great Giving Tree.
And I was a nearby flower.
A delicate, nearby flower.
A flower that went about its normal routines, such as photosynthesis or pollination or other flower things.
Ah, those flower things.
To me they are everything.
This flower would blossom in the spring and wither in the winter.
I would spend my flower days in the summer breathing in the glowing sunlight and living my flower life.
And in the fall, I would spend my flower nights rocking in the breeze, waiting for winter to come and bring me my renewal period.
I would look with my flower eyes toward you, the great Giving Tree.
Tall and ***** like the unstoppable force.
And I, there on the ground, the immovable object.
Your knowledge was so delightful at first.
It lit up my surrounding flower world more than the Sun ever could.
Your knowledge would come at all hours of the day, no matter rain or shine.
I remember once a long time ago when I was a little, tiny flower.
It was raining on my little tiny flower head.
But you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The rain that would beat pitter-patter on my pedals.
The water that would run down my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak up the water my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
And then there was the time when I was an older, bigger flower.
The Sun was shining on my older, bigger flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The sunlight that shine zig-zag on my pedals.
The shadow that would cast from my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak in the sunlight my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
But now I am a current, normal flower.
The world is passing by my current, normal flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
You with your knowledge….
Said nothing to me, your son.
I didn’t know what to take in.
So I did just what you didn’t say.
And I just kept watching the world float by you, great Giving Tree.
You, the unstoppable force.
And I just kept watching the world float by me, the delicate flower.
Me, the immovable object.
And for the rest of our days you said nothing to me.
You don’t pass your knowledge to me, your delicate flower son.
Your immovable object.
And I stop listening to you, my great Giving Tree.
My unstoppable force.
The monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just don’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears anymore.
The relationship we had has faded away.
But I had a feeling neither of us would win when we first met.

“Because you know what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.”

Sometimes, you gotta let some ships just sail away.

Because eventually, you'll either learn to swim.

Or that ship will disappear beyond the horizon.

Either way, you won't be on-board.

And somehow, you've got to be ok with that.

I'm afraid the only time you and I, my dear, will ever be together,

Is right here in this poem.

And if that doesn't make me want to bleed blood from my wrists all over this paper instead of words from my mouth,

I don't know what will.

I guess I'm just one of those "lovesick, pathetic, try-too-hard's."

The one who uses their prayers to pray for you.

The one who uses their 11:11 wishes to wish for you.

The one who picks eyelashes from their crying eyes to hope and beg for you.

I guess I'm just one of those lovesick, pathetic, try-too-hard's.

Just hoping to be with you.

But having to face the harsh reality that people like me only end up with people like you,

In poems like this.

Her hands are shaking.
Trembling, trembling as the box moves closer to her reach.
Her heart is racing just as fast as she used to everyday after school when she ran from the school bullies.
Her heart is pumping blood just as her wrists do after she introduces them to a blade.
Her heart is slowly being mended just like the reconciliation of her relationship with her psychotic sister.
Her hands are shaking so bad she can't make out the outline of them in this dimly-lit room.
The candle light ricochets off the walls.
All she can think about is how he has stood beside her this whole time.
The room smells of cigarettes, which reminds her of the first time she met him.
That night at the corner liquor store where she went after her grandad died.
Trying to drown the pain by drowning herself in
pills and alcohol.
She was approached by a man who smelt of death who tried to steal her money, and if he got any further, her virginity.
Just as the man went to put his hands on her, the boy stepped up and protected her.
That trend continued for years as he protected not only her, but their love as well.
She knew she had finally found something worth loving truly for.
No more hiding who she truly was behind drugs, lies, and a noose hung ready in her closet.
She realized that he made her complete.
She'd walk to the end of the earth for him and he'd crawl with broken legs all the world around to see her.
But as the bills piled high and the eviction notices multiplied by the hundreds, they didn't know how to move on.
She turned back to the drugs and the pills as she knew she was drowning,
Drowning deeper and deeper.
Waiting to feel his hand plunge deep in the water to save her life.
And he'd do it every time.
She realized that he took her sky high with his love.
This would soon overcome all her addictions, leaving her only addicted to his love.
She could barely breathe as her hands touched the box.
By now she was surprised they hadn't fallen off from trembling,
Trembling so much.
As she opened the box, her breath rapidly started to leave her body.
She could feel herself going numb.
She couldn't speak.
As he pulled the ring from the box, her body shook more and more from excitement and shock.
He asked for her hand in marriage, and she started to cry with joy.
After they kissed he whispered, "You've always been my addiction."

To my mother, Gina,
Who's watching over me.
Today is your birthday.
You would have been 50.

You had me when you were 31,
And left me when you were 49.
No one knew that you were going.
No one still knows why at this time.

You were an angel of a woman.
A healer and a helper.
As I was growing up I'd say,
"I wanna be just like her!"

Even though life hit you hard,
You wouldn't let it phase you.
You'd keep a beautiful smile.
Oh, this much is true.

When you passed away,
It was a sudden blow.
Like from my chest my heart was ripped.
And from my body too was my soul.

Everyday I cry tears.
I leave the evidence on my shirt.
These tears stains are just evidence.
Evidence that it still hurts.

And today is your birthday.
May 2 is the date.
Today is your birthday.
50 is the age.

But you're not in the next room over.
Not there for me to run to.
I can't come say "Happy Birthday."
And you're not there to say "Thank you."

You're up in Heaven.
The big glorious kingdom in the sky.
And it's just got me thinking,
I wonder what birthdays in heaven are like.

You're celebrating a new life.
Eternal life is the name.
You get to walk those golden streets.
And never feel any pain.

But down here on earth,
We miss you, oh we do.
And it's heartbreaking that we have to go to a graveside.
Just to sing "Happy Birthday" to you.

But even through the pain,
There's still happiness here.
Knowing we get to celebrate you.
Is the greatest celebration my dear!

So today is your day.
Our celebration will ring through.
Happy 50th Birthday Mom.
I love and miss you.

This whole thing is one big typo.

It’s supposed to tell you how much I love you.

But instead it’s just another boring poem.

How lame.

Sometimes you're the table and sometimes you're its legs.

Either way, you've gotta carry some weight.

Do you like puzzles?

Because I've got one for you that has over a million pieces.

It's called "My Broken Heart."

And it's guaranteed to have you saying:

*"Some assembly required my ***!"

You say life is but a dream.
Well then when will I wake up?
I'm tired of living in this lie.
This fantasy.

You've diluted these waters I swam in.
You've poisoned my sweet serenity.
How could you ever look me in the eyes and tell me the truth?
You have drowned me in my own existence.

I'm struggling to wake from this nightmare.
I can barely tell right from wrong all while I'm trying to right the wrong you've perpetrated against me.
I'm struggling to resurface.
You constantly hold my head under while I drown away.

And now I've become the deadpool.

So come and take a swim.

There is always a light at the end of your darkness.
There is always a light at the end of your turmoil.
There is always a light at the end of your troubles.
There is always a light at the end of your pain.

Just don’t close your eyes.

You used to tell me “The way you’re living is bad.”
“The way you’re living is terrible.”

You used to point out every little intricate mistake that I was making and every little small detail of my life that ****** you off.

But when I asked you “What I could do to change everything?”

You kept spewing your garbage at me.
So all I did was look at you and say:

“When are you going to realize that you have nothing left to say that I want to hear?”

*“And sooner or later, you’re going to have nothing left to say at all.”

I need me more than I need anyone else.

Because when I needed everyone else,

No one needed me.

And you know what, it's ok.

Because I don't need them, anyways.

I’ve been told I need to be a bit more confident in my life.

And boy, ain’t that the gospel ******* truth?

My whole life I’ve been afraid of pretty much everything.

Doctor’s offices, monsters, the dark, strangers, death, sickness, spiders,
Basically everything.

But, alas, I’ve been told I need to be more confident.

Is it really that easy?

Is it really that easy to look at myself in the mirror and not hate the image looking back?
Is it really easy to live a healthy life and not be afraid of diseases or death?
Is it really easy to tell the girl I like that I like her and not be afraid of her response?

Of course it is.

But all I need is a little more confidence.
Because in my life, I have none.

I’m overweight.
I don’t particularly like the way I look.
And I’ve never had a girl.
But why am I writing about all of this instead of saying it to everyone’s faces?

Well, because I always feel most confident when I am writing.

Have you ever walked through a store and stopped at the bakery?

Just stopped and stared at the doughnuts?

Noticed how they had a hole in the middle?

Man, how they resemble my heart.

The sound of my beating heart echoes off these walls of my room.
I'm implanted in darkness, but all I can see is a vivid picture of you and I.
My body trembles as my thoughts of you continue to grow bigger and bigger, as does my love.
And you can feel it too.
And I don't want to let this slip away like my father did.
Five years since I've seen him.
It feels like a lifetime.
But at the same time, it feels like I've known you for a lifetime.
And at the same same time, lifetime is the word to describe how long I want us to be together.
But right now I feel like I'm forcing this down your throat, constantly
Day after day like a disease.
I feel like I'm hurting you with each word I say because with each word I say more and more of my affections fall from my heart and my mouth like sand through an hourglass.
I want to give you the world wrapped in a rainbow.
"This is yours" I whisper.
"I am yours."
And I feel like you're stuck in an abyss, falling deeper and deeper forevermore into agony and sadness.
And I just want to swing in on a rope and save you.
I want to dry your tears like the sun dries a desert, which seems to describe what he's doing to your heart.
He's leaving it dry and barren.
He only pleasures your heart with a sprinkling of false affection.
He wouldn't travel to see you, but I would fly to the sky just to bring you back the stars.
And now I feel we're in a Pythagorean theorem situation, just looking for a solution.
And with every word and every thought I feel like I'm driving you and your affections away but I don't want that at all.
I've realized all along that not even space can separate us.
We're bonded together by something too strong to break.
Passion, caring, love.
And I just hope you feel the same and never lose that hope.
And someday, we can share that hope together.
As we are together.
In each others arms, shielding each other from everything that tries to break our spirits.
Anyone that tries to make us pebbles in their shoes, just for them to act as giants and crush us.
And someday, when it's you and me, I'll give you the world and whisper, "This is yours. I am yours."

Life sure is a bitter pill.

But instead of attempting to swallow it.

I'm straight up ******* choking on it.

Does a wish even mean anything anymore?

It seems that people wish and wish and wish,
More each day and day and day.

But they don’t receive any of their wishes, just more days.
It seems like it’s impossible for a wish to come true anymore.
I’m sitting here in this room and I’m surrounded by is troubled memories.
All these troubled images and feelings.

I look up to the clock and it’s 11:10.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
Because I know in just one short minute,
One little minute,
One rapidly approaching minute,
It will be 11:11.
And that minute seems to last forever.

It is in that minute that the dreamers and the believers and the prayers,
They all become the wishers.
They all wish for better jobs, or better cars, or better tomorrows.
But sadly, no one ever told them that tomorrow never comes.

Tomorrow is just a day away.
But tomorrow will never be here because when you get there it’s Today.

Tomorrow is such a strange thing.
But yet so many people wish for the pain to cease, tomorrow.
For the girl or guy to like us back, tomorrow.
We all wish to find a million dollars on the ground, tomorrow.

We wish, we wish, we wish.

In that minute at 11:11, we spend a lifetime wishing for something that we know we NEED.
We don’t WANT a new car, we NEED one to get to the store to buy groceries for our children.
We don’t WANT that other person to like us back, we NEED them to because we need a hand to hold, lips to kiss, and a shoulder to cry on.
We don’t WANT to find money on the ground, we NEED to because we’re running out of money to pay the bills, money to pay the rent, and money to live.
We don’t wish for things we WANT, we wish for things we NEED.

We need comfort.
We need happiness to come and see the way we’ve been living.
And for it to say “This person needs me.”

I wish we all had our wishes, oh that is what I wish.

Some people look at wishing as Child’s Play.
But I look at it as a lost art that has become unrecognized.

Because there are so many people in the World,
Wishing for a heart that needs healed.
A hand that needs held.
And for stars they need to show so they may keep wishing upon them.

Sometimes, when we wish for a better day, we get a terrible one.
When we wish for more food, we go hungrier.
When we wish for riches, we receive rags.
When we wish for love, we find hate.
Happiness, we find pain.
White, we find grey.

And sometimes we wish for the day but we find the night.

And if it was all up to me, a wish would come true for me and you.
Wishes would be like horses, and gallop toward prosperity.
Those wishes would be like spaceships, and fly to unknown places.
And they would save everyone with good graces.
Wishes would be like cars.
They’d travel oh so far.
Wishes would be like airplanes.
And probably do something that rhymes with airplanes.

Those wishes would save our souls.
Those wishes would make the World whole.

I wish everyone who wishes wishes would have their wishes come true.
I wish pain would turn into serendipity.
Sadness would turn into happiness.
I wish the World would be whole once again.

I would wish for a better today and to never see tomorrow if all it holds is pain.

I’d wish the whole World would be happy again,
And I’d wish you all the best,

But sadly, it’s now 11:12.

I’m like a rubber band.

I’m forced to bounce back from many things.
I am painfully stretched to my limits,
And recoil back into myself daily.

I’m like a rubber band.

But stretch me out for too long,
Or wear me down for too long,

And in the wrong hands,
I’ll break every time.

Sometimes I sit here,
Wanting to cry.

But I can't.

And sometimes,
I sit here,
And the tears sneak up on me from out of nowhere.

And there's no way that I,

A small paper sailboat, floating aimlessly in my own sorrow,

Can survive the force of the typhoon coming from my eyes.

If this was a poem,
Would you read it?

And if this was a song,
Would you sing it?

And if this was a paper map showing you how to get to Rancho Cucamonga, California,
Would you be inspired by it?

Or just put your joint down already?

We are taught to do a lot of things in life.

We’re taught how to eat.
How to talk.
How to move.
How to behave.

But why aren’t we taught other important things?

Like how to love?
How to live?
How to fall apart?

Because aren’t those the most valuable lessons anyways?

I am an abundance of lost stars.

And they've all gone supernova.

Now they're just splattered throughout space,
Throughout the darkness and the abyss.

And now they call me beautiful.

Because pain and chaos always paints the prettiest pictures.

I either write when I'm in love or in pain.

So call me the constant writer.

But be not afraid when you see my poems drenched in blood,

For they are all like that.

Because I only write when I'm in love or in pain,

And for me those are the same.

“He hit me while I was down.”

Well, maybe you should get back up.

“But what if he hits me when I’m up?”

Well then, maybe you should pay attention more.

“But I didn’t do anything to him!”

Ah, you finally understand how the world works my friend.

Sometimes, when I go for a drive,
I see myself in the side-view mirror.

And I say:
“Man, who’s that stud in the side-view?”

And other times when I go for a drive,
I see myself in the visor mirror.

And I say:
“Man, who’s that stud in the visor?”

But most times when I go for a drive,
I see myself in the rear-view.

And I say:
“Man, that stud is never going to get anywhere if he keeps living in the past.”

Why would I?
Why should I?
Why could I?
Why would I crawl back into that thorn bush?
Why should I travel back in time to have it hurt again?
Why could I be a superhero?

Well, because that thorn bush has roses.
And traveling back in time and experiencing that pain would be better than the pain of today.
And well, because, I'd look **** good in a cape.

But why would there be roses on a thorn bush?
And why should I still have to go through pain?
And why could I pull of a cape so dashingly?

Well, because there's beauty in beasts.
Pain is never-ending.
And well, I've been my own superhero for quite sometime.

Would I show it?
Should I show it?
Could I show it?

No.

And it's better that way.

The world is only as big as it reaches.
And yes, my children, it reaches pretty far.
It's filled with millions and millions of faces just wishing to attain fame.
They want more and more of it and they need it now.
But then there are those who don't know their purpose.
They feel like they can't fit in in this far reaching world.
They are the sould dressed in black, not because they are sad.
But because they are absent.
They feel like day after day after **** day they are going down like the Titanic.
But at least the Titanic drew money.
These souls, they are left to suffer under shadows of vultures.
They don't own a mirror because they don't want to look at themselves in it anyway.
Because they're afraid if they do, they'll see what they look like.
They'll see what people see.
The disgust, the patheticness, the nerd, the goth, the dork, the ****,
The in pain.
The insane.
The mental game.
They are all taking their tolls.
But where are these people to go?
How are they to know?
How were they to know that a disorder known as bipolar would result in bringing a blade to their wrists or a noose to their throats?
Their screams can't be heard because they're being cut off by the noose.
They try so hard to escape from this far reaching world.
But they can never escape this lie we're living in.
They scratch and claw at the door like a cat wanting milk.
Because that cat had a bad day at cat school and he just wants to come back to his cat home and drink his cat milk.
And then cry himself to sleep.
And as the cat sleeps he'll have his cat dreams.
He'll dream of one day becoming top cat,  sly cat, papa cat, and even the cat's pajamas.
He'll dream of one day when he can stroll down to the corner trashcan without being harassed by the big dog names Spike from down the street.
He'll dream of mice and how things aren't nice and about his dinner, rice.
But then his dreams turn into nightmares.
Like a 50 year old losing his hair.
Or like your spouse declaring they just don't care.
They've given up.
But suddenly you awaken hearing your cat crying in the night.
And you run to him and pick him up, assuring him that he is not alone.
And it is then that you catch yourself in the hallway mirror.
You see who you are for the first time.
You see yourself, and also a dark cloud.
It's that dark cloud of denial hanging over your head.
But you also see your cat in your arms.
And you are suddenly reminded that you are not alone in this far reaching world.
This far reaching world would be alone without you.
So my children, my black wearing souls.
Pour yourself some milk and cry yourself to sleep.
But when you awaken, remember your dreams.
Put them in a file and label it "Hope."

And when you feel that you are alone at the end of this far reaching world, remember,

You're the cat's pajamas.

There are some people out there that have wanted to **** themselves for some time now.
And there are some who have bled blood from their bodies to drown out the tears.

There are some people out there who were once the brave ones.
The cool kids.
The strong warriors.

These people, they were once dreamers.
Who are now haunted by nightmares.

These people, they were once believers.
Who are now wearing the handprint of life bitchslapping them in the face.

These people, they were once fearless.
And now fear is the only thing they want less of.

But these people, they haven’t given up yet.

These people fight every day to better themselves.
They fight to be strong once again.

These people haven’t ended it all, even though they feel like the world is pushing them to.
They haven’t given up.
They haven’ killed themselves.

But that’s not something you can brag about at fancy parties.

Those eyes are beautiful.
Like diaries unopened.
But I need to be careful.
Before I fall for them again.
They stare into my soul.
When I look at all the pictures.
Their main goal.
Must be to injure.
Injure my pride.
My ****** emotions.
To send me sky high.
To cause one big commotion.
Those eyes have lust.
Lust not for me.
They don't just settle for rust.
But all and every thing.
When I stare at them.
They turn into a book.
But when I stare again.
I see myself as the story's crook.
I lust for them.
As you lust for me.
But I'll rust for them.
And you'll rust carefully.
Eyes can reveal and they can hide.
They hide our darkest secret until the end.
They witness our lust for each other, in pride.
But pride is a sin, my friend.

I HAVE FINALLY RE-EDITED AND FINISHED MY FIRST BOOK, FROM CRO MAGNON TO PRO AVERAGE MAN: AN ASSORMENT OF POEMS!!!!!

Well, I have officially made my first book of poetry. The book is entitled From Cro Magnon to Pro Average Man: An Assortment of Poems. This was the first time I ever attempted making a book, and finally I have pulled it off!!! I made this book through the website: www.bookemon.com. Just a few minutes ago, I actually published the book on Bookemon for the whole world to buy! So, if you’ve wanted a copy all along, are interested in reading it now, and/or just want to help me keep chasing my dream of becoming a known-poet by paying for the book, YOU CAN!! Here’s what you do:

You go to www.bookemon.com

You enter “From Cro Magnon to Pro Average Man” into the search bar in the upper-right hand part of the screen.

When you hit “Search,” my books should pop up!! MY books! I actually made it.

There are two types of the book. A hardcover and a softcover version. It will say which version is which under the title. The hardcover version sells for $28.72, plus tax. And the softcover version sells for $18.07, plus tax.

If you would be so awesomely-amazing to buy a copy, just hit ADD TO CART, Then scroll down and hit PROCEED TO CHECKOUT. Hit CONTINUE under GUEST CHECKOUT, and enter your information there.

NOW, I KNOW THE BOOK IS KINDA PRICY, BUT BOOKEMON SETS THE PRICES THEMSELVES. MY APOLOGIES.

Or, if you don’t have any money to spend and just want a little preview of the book, you can hit READ beside the book and get a free 20 page preview!!

Again, thank you to everyone who has supported me through this long process of self-publishing my first book of poetry. And thanks in advance to anyone who is willing to buy the book and actually does. THAT WOULD MEAN THE LITERAL WORLD TO ME.
Thank you all again. Now I have all my time devoted to the continuing and making of my second book, Pocket Change for Priceless Memories. It’s coming soon!!

Thanks again everyone!

Nick

Last words are for weddings and for funerals,

But in a weird and cruel way,

Love can be both.

My heart is like a rose, red and beautiful.
But it also has its thorns, from pain everlasting.

My mind is like a dandelion, it sprouts with the sun.
But it is also in a million pieces, since my thoughts all scream at me.

My body is like an Autumn Adonis, glowing ever so brightly.
But it is also dangerous, since I have poison in my veins.

But I am a delicate being,

I am the Flower Child.