your bittersweet acid-kisses
 made my lips burn enough 
to set myself on fire just by thinking of the night 
you hid a part of yourself 
in my hollow skin. you built a burning castle in my fragile mind, you ****

*(k.w)

I ask the tree who for hundreds of years has been around,
because his roots are strong and firm under the ground,
to teach me how to stand tall when I am alone and feel small,
that way no lumber men can make me fall.

I ask the river that stretches from sea to sea,
because her water doesn't know how to be nothing but free,
to teach how to keep going when I am stuck and don’t know what to do,
that way no boulder can stop me from the path I wish to pursue.

I ask the bird that is both strong on the ground as he is in the air,
because his eyes see that it is the ground that has the meal that he wishes to ensnare,
to teach how to observe my surroundings when life is at an ultimate high,
that way no doubts are in my mind that I can survive when my high life says goodbye.

I ask the sky who has beautiful stars, sunsets, and rainbows,
because she also has fierce storms that give many people halos,
to teach me how gain inner peace and balance when life is like a bumpy ride,
that way no bad weather forecast can make me hide.  

I ask my imagination to stay nearby,
that way I can ask more than just the tree, river, bird and sky.

My need to write is like a prizefight
One scribe, one pen enters the book
Hopefully hundreds will turn up for a look!
If not the fight hasn't been in vain, I'll probably
realise my pomposity, at pretending to be a prodigy!

Consciously though I prophesy this, my right wrist
in all honesty, couldn't conduct a pen to solve a mystery!
Yet, still my need to scribble words overtakes sense,
hence, at the pretence of being a poet, I actually don't know it!
That last bit rhymed!

Look your best for death
Before you drown in a fairytale
You've marked the date with an 'X'
In red on your calendar
You plan to sneak out that night
And you've butterflies in your chest
But you've just got to have this date with her
So look you're best for death
"I love you's" are for the dead.

My depression is a transgression
against me, and mine.
I never asked to be contaminated
with this strife.

My depression is a possession
of evil, of illness.
I never thought I would be
rife with highs and lows.

My depression is a progression
of good and bad thoughts.
I never wanted to be
violated with cries and lies.

My depression is a weapon
against all who suffer its woes.
I hope the afterlife takes this repression
and nullifies it's effects.

My depression is mine but
suffered by many. We are pulverised,
neutralised and modified by our own
minds and medicated to keep sated.

My depression is Legion
a wickedness to the self.
A circle unending, unbending,
curving toward suppression of oneself.

My memories burn  .  .  .
Red rose lighted by the moon,
  .  .  .  Cold funeral pyre.

With the buzz words, "the starving strive," there's no ****** to tilt the pain of not choosing to live life with blind eyes. Even the meek survive is inscribed, each inner-lip that spells out love is just another disgrace four-letter word of a four-letter cause. The environment we live is mocked and shaken to the core, what is this, "One Life To Live?" It's not one day at a time, it's day in day out, sit straight up, you can't just observe. As I choke from swearing, it's curse words that ring bigger than my mouth, I prefer to leave my pants off just get some head, choosing cuddling for grammar wars that then go on eating out. My prayer life is just another absentee ballot with full circles voided, I'm on my knees each morning and night, but I can't figure out when I'm going to start saying the right words. The horror of the story of being a kid, living life as a child has come and passed, I went from eating cereal with orange juice and Chocolate Nesquick, to stereotyping heavy metal to passing grass without letting the teacher's snoop in and find out. I listened to Paranoid, Parabol, Tool, Marilyn Manson, Black Sabbath, and the Irresponsible Hate Anthem, we wore our shirts inside-out, until we got a block away, then flipped the tags and turned our shirts right-side out. I couldn't mentally prepare for loss, ACT scores, or four years away bottoming out. I just jumped on my V-Card, grabbed a hot girl and took to the forest to get my card punched out. I sat on the back of the bus but not because I was cool, I just wanted to distance myself from any other kids that would try to ask me anything, and hide behind the seat in order to try and skip school. I'm fifteen, Dad bought me a suit for job interviews but its funerals I'm using it for, my best friend's Dad died on Christmas Day, but we were getting high and tripping too. One week later my Uncle is learning from Smith & Wesson, except it's footsie he's playing with his big toe, and it's his head that's learning the lesson. Four days pass and Joey used red rope licorice for tie a noose from his fan, two hours later, I hear about a guy falling 48 stories, but the truth is it's my Cousin Stan. Whether they die in a box or shooting up on the bathroom floor, I get tired of wearing my Summer-suit on Sunday afternoons in winter on the way to the funeral parlor. Closed-casket, national anthem, an equilateral flag placed over the grave. This wasn't the first time, it was the fifth, but the **** is I'm just in the 10th grade. There is no variable, to taking breaths, but the lungs give up trying to breathe in, especially when you're dead. The mental anguish subsides with cigarettes and coffee, but the look on their parent's face every single time I'm there, it will always haunt me.