i gave you a box of memories
a box you told me you had lost
you did not want it back you said
it was full of ghosts from the past
i decided to collect new memories
to let you see mine
you hid the box under your bed
for a while everything was fine

when the moon kept you company
on nights in july
you held the box in your hands
found comfort in my silent sigh
the once blooming memories
started to fade away
every cell in your body screamed
you desperately wanted them to stay

you gave the box to her
the long lashes-girl
and filled the box with the scent of change
to wash the guilt away
you filled it with laughter
and expensive wine
you let her snort *******
on the memories of mine

time went on
you filled your poems with her
and held her tight at night
you became her comfort zone
what you did not notice
i sat by the lake on my own
and quietly sang your poisoned words
you will never have to be alone

(k.w)

Up Late but not Contemplating Poem
4/27/2014

1am to 3am
Refusal to endorse the typical behavior one might partake in at this time.
Still awake, but feeling trapped by sleep's scheme.
It's like we are forced to close our eyes each night and open come morning.
But what if I want to resist?

3am to 5am.
These are the best a 24 hour period can hold.
Magical things happen when you lose your will to sleep.
You realize you have been living with eyes wide open, constantly asleep.
That only when you deny your eyelids their longing kiss,
will you truly fall awake.

5am to 7am.
You have planned out most of your day tomorrow.
Eagerly awaiting a trip to your favorite early morning cafe or diner.
What a great feeling to be awake when you really shouldn't be.
It's a small taste of nostalgia from grabbing cookies out of the forbidden jar.
You get a sense of content as you let the remaining hours of the night drift.
Think about the most amazing fresh shower in a couple hours.

7am to 9am
Living in the moment with just yourself.
It is great to know the world exists not in your bedroom,
but for these few hours,
you were able to block it out.
You are up late but not contemplating.

The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****.
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?

I'm like pluto,
Rejected.
No longer belonging with the others and their fascinating qualities.
I'm like pluto,
Rejected
Just a mistake

She saw how the angry, greyish ocean
crashed upon the shore
with such fury and disgust
and couldn't help but compare it
to the endless nights where
she'd sit and stare at that
hateful, taunting piece of glass
with a reflection as grotesque
as the image of the waves
while they aimed to devour the coastline.

He walked outside and placed it between his lips,
As every drop of rain trickled down, so did a tear.
He wore nothing but a t-shirt, as white as the sky,
He wore nothing but sadness, as he lit.
As he pressed his lips together and took a drag-
His lungs sizzled- his tears- sizzled.
All what was left... a dried up person, lost between drought and hydration.

Burn her at the stake
She speaks up for herself
Throw her off a cliff
She'll fall through the ground, to hell

Burn her, she's too outspoken
She questions society
Burn this ****** witch
Lest others follow her lead.

Burn her, burn her, burn her!
From blood, to bone, to ash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Rebellious piece of trash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Not even her teeth will remain
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Until normalcy is regained

Burn her at the stake
Because she won't submit
Burn her at the stake
Until she lives how we like it

Burn her at the stake
Shun her until her day to die
Burn her at the stake
We want to hear her fry

Burn her, burn her, burn her!
From blood, to bone, to ash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Rebellious piece of trash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Not even her teeth will remain
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Until normalcy is regained

And should any choose to walk her way
Well see to it they perish
We live out lives in constant fear
That they'll come to their senses

And should any choose to walk her way
We'll see to it they perish
We live our lives in constant fear
That they'll come to their senses

Burn her, burn her, burn her!
From blood, to bone, to ash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Rebellious piece of trash
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Not even her teeth will remain
Burn her, burn her, burn her!
Until normalcy is regained