A poet knows where words are grown
And where a poem starts
A place where just a thought is sown
A place inside our hearts

Some words are from the days of old
From poets of the past
Words that's meant to be retold
Making sure they always last

While other words can only be found
Inside a single tear
They're silent words without a sound
That only the poet can hear

For only a poet can write a smile
They've rescued from their pain
They'll use the words in such a style
That only they can explain

A poet knows where words are grown
The words that are hard to find
For poets somehow have always known
It's the heart and not the mind

Here lies X,
Presumptuous isn't it?
A little bit of pomp in lieu of starting a poem
Written for everyone to see;
Nonetheless, here I lie.

This isn't a suicide note
I'm not dying tonight
This is a desire note

A desire to see the man I am die.
This isn't a pity party,
This isn't a threat to me, and please don't worry

This is religious.
I won't claim it as any other.
I wish to see me die.

Me
The "man" who sees a cross
And looks away
For fear of changing what I'm doing
Because, honestly, it makes me feel good.

I look to a crucifix on Sunday
Believe in Transubstantiation
But I still can't get enough of women fornicating on the web.

It hurts to write this down
But to those of you who read it,
I want you to know
I'm drowning

This is struggle.
Day-to-day
Hour-to-Hour
I don't want this
But everything earthly about me does

There needs to be a look
Outside of self
But I'm happy in this cottage
I need to get out
It's burning down
But the fire is what's keeping me warm

I'm not trying to play
Like I'm really ok,
Because fact of the matter:
I'm not

The absolute worst part:
I've said this a million times.
A million and one.

You lock yourself within the cathedral,
if only to notice the angel again.
Her lovely luminescence 'dark as the Russian night;
Scandalous as a Venetian romance.
If you could kiss  each feather, brush away small detail,
you would discover prime, purity.
Your crystallized kiss is what she searches for;
Even as the day has the routine of making love to the night.
The day will merge with the night,
as you know.
Be wary my fellow, my colleague, my love!
An angel is only as pure as the cathedral that it fell into.
You will wither with her sadism, dissipate.
She will continue on.