Butterflies like flying songs,
Leave trails deep inside,
Fluttering with nervous haste.

Is a poem a song you speak?
Is it the music of the soul?
Is it a random, over-analysed hypothesis?
Does it have meaning as a whole?

Does anybody care,
About the words we post on sites?
The pain that makes good poetry,
Does it make us parasites?

Do we **** the blood of sorrow,
Till its bitter juice is done?
A ton of bloated leeches,
Belching back the pain we've won?

Is my anguish worse than yours,
Because I write it like a song?
Do you care about my heart,
Because my sonnet reads so long?

Are my poems just graffiti,
On the tombs of poets dead?
Is a poem really better,
When it's torment that's been said?

Would I ever love to
Stomp you down
Until you believe
That nothing you do
Means anything

The mischief minds of men,
Haunted by their thoughts and ideas;
stuck in their ambitions,
And the search for perfection.

This utopia they seek,
Is nothing more than a shadow;
Comprehensible by the eye,
But unreachable for the soul.

Nevertheless the mind pushes on,
The trail getting ever so long;
It is here we are lost,
It is here we will die.

Isn't it sad
How we
Can spend
A lot of
Time together
Yet know
Next to nothing
About
Each another.
This though,
Is not the time
To reminisce.
Earlier this
Morning you
Told me that
You were leaving.
It came in not
As bomb that
Levels cities,
No, it was more
Like a baseball
That broke through
The stained-glass windows
Of my heart.
This does
Not **** me,
But day in
And day out,
I am burdened
By the gaping
Hole in me.
I pick the
Shards of glass,
Stained with
Memories and
Mysteries.
I only ask
To know you more.
I try to put
The shards together
Enduring all
The cuts to my
Fingers.
Cuts of different
Sizes, some are
Deep and some
Are shallow
But all draw blood
The same.
I Persevere
through the pain
To rebuild
That perfect
Picture.
To see the
Mystery
Unravel before
Me.
To put together
The pieces of
Your identity.
Isn't it sad
How we
Can spend
A lot of
Time together
Yet know
Next to nothing
About
Each another.
I only ask
To know you more.
Someday perhaps,
I would see
your hands,
Whose scars
Would gladly
Open again,
And help me
Fix this broken
Memory.

a warm dawning sun
rises slow on hazy horizons
with winds wildly
blowing
down endless
interconnected currents
we wake up
to birds singing
timeless songs of morning
and our forgotten past
leaves us hanging
like willows weeping
in the rain

Ode to the tedium,
Ode to the insanity,
Ode to the laborious,
Ode to the depravity,

Repetitive cycles force the passage of time, and tentative disciples are forced to be kind,
Mandatory interactions are the business of the day,
But thats the path we must traverse to receive our weekly pay,
We are herded in like cattle under the watchful gaze of them,
we are treated as if machines, when we are fervent that we're men,
The daily struggle and the constant grind,
Are what we're told assures us that we are alive,

Ode to the perpetual,
Ode to the necessity,
Ode to the resentful,
Ode to our identity.

Don't get married.
Instead, select a stranger
whom you encounter often,
and apologize to that person,
every day,
for the way you want to live.
It's cheaper.