my visiting friend
  languidly lounging adjacently
    seemingly content with proximity

licking the hand momentarily
  suddenly biting somewhat tenderly
    but she remains, relaxed...

Poetry is dead.
I am only writing to you as a
Ghost myself.

Do not fear though,
For in death restrictions are forgiven
And we can roam senselessly
Through the annals of time.

Let us read of the modesty
Of the notebook. Oh, how I’ll
Remind you of the typewriter,
Lest we forget its aggression.

The pound of the letters,
Each stamped with vengeance
Onto the page.

The digital age.

This is all still just an elaborate
And effortful attempt
To paint our hands onto the
Wall of a cave.

So, poetry is dead
And I believe you are too.
Else you wouldn’t be reading this,
You would have something more unhealthy to do.

Looking up at me
It's more than I can handle
Show me what its like
To be tasted by an angel

i am starting to get bad again
my heart ceasing to an empty end
yet my mind's overloading
satisfied with drugs, pain, and dying
uncontrollable shakes
forced harming to wake
no signs of courage
restless and wornout image
my heart stops beating
and my head starts pounding
i am starting to get bad again
and i am craving for my dead end.

*-djs

I fear for the planet
and fearing the planet makes me
fear it even more;
a world where its inhabitants fear their
own surroundings is a world to be very fearful of indeed.

oh to the world she sang
all night long, her song was the
only break the people
could hear from the perpetual and insistent
persistent ringing of car horns.
police sirens. and gun shots.
all through the night she sat - a constant
in a universe of atmospheric
change, a world of ever-lasting
inconsistency. it was sweet, a hummingbird’s call,
a sweet candy in amongst the notes. her
chord was her friend and her voice
was the end. of the war for the night
for the fight and
all who listened stopped short
and forgot the cause.
why did they do it? was the repeated
line, why did they ****? she cries, her voice
forever flourishing, beautiful and sacred,
but evidence suggests there’re under
tones of broken strings and mismatched hymns, a
cry of pain... nestled like the bird she sounds of.
why did they **** my family?
the sanctity of her voice broke the
‘sanctity’ of the war.

I’m trapped
In a labyrinth of thoughts
A complicated irregular network
Of nonsensical passages
I wonder
Will I ever escape
Will I ever get to feel
Or to taste
What this place
Has conjured up
And passed off
As reality
But in my heart I know
I never will
I’ll exist here forever
From this place
I’ll watch my body rot
And feel my mind disintegrate
My only escape
From the present
Is the future
Though I know
It’s nonexistent
So what’s the point
Is there a reason
Because I need one
I’m beginning to tire
Of this never-ending puzzle
When I think I’ve found my way out
I get lost again
When I begin to see a light
At the end of the tunnel
It flickers off,
toying with my head
And I’m lost again
Was there ever a time
When I wasn’t
Was there ever a time
When my mind could be free
I can’t remember