Inconspicuous as vanity
And as ***** as prostitution
We chant a wild song.
Change, we call for
Peace, we beg for.
But neither arrives in such a
Golden coach
Without the snake which
rides around the neck of
Our future.
Riots erupt into
Desperate silence
As the snake tightens
His grip.
All he says,
He says,
He says:
It is all we can do
For peace.
You, the people,
You, the righteous people,
Pulled the trigger on
Change.
You, the good people
Released the snake
Which your grandparents
Locked up.
I know only
Change.
And you will know only
Peace
From now on.

God save your souls.

Our hearts cry out, empty with despair,
While our robotic pockets whine in our ears.
We watch too much and do too little,
Where too brown stars live lives too fickle.
We say many things, but honesty is lost,
In this perilous climb to the very top.
We create less and waste more,
Begging and borrowing from other worlds.
We go to school to learn good things,
But the subjects winter taught are gone by spring.
We forget too often the good things in life,
So we create a fake one on a screen that's bright.
There are giants and mice in this great big place,
You are too small or too large and don't have a face.
The mask you wear is the only clothing
For the shameless body we are showing.
The machine of the city will stand so tall,
While the people alone slowly fall.

We focus ******* the goal,
Not caring how we score.

The journey doesn't matter and it drips deceit,
Our climb to the cold and golden throne-seat.

Upon our thrones we sit,
Growing fat and unfit.

We waste and wither and dwindle away,
While the sinew of our country crawls further astray.

I am weak
I am the fringes
Of split peaks
Where ***** water runs.

Whenever I get the urge
To inhale my death
The poison sinks into
My shaking chest.
My living time shrinks
With each passing trunk
Of those wrapped bits
Of tar and junk.
On the road to hell
I walk the double yellow
Rattling breath yells
In a silence that bellows.
But every time I say
I'll have my last one today
Tomorrow comes fast
And wins a game I won't play.

The fog curls around
My sickened face
And I don't make a sound
As I drop to the pavement.

Writers are humble beings.
We are not arrogant,
Mighty,
Or triumphant.
We are merely the artisans of words
That will forever exist.
We mold what we already know
Into a black and white painting of what we don't know.
To better understand
Ourselves,
Our world,
And worlds beyond us.
Between keyboard taps,
Pencils that scratch,
And minds that rage on.

We rarely ever write about
Ourselves.
If we do, it is only our perception of ourselves.
We do not brag,
Only tell,
Perspectives,
Views,
Arguments.
We use characters to view the world sometimes.
The morbid words come together nicely.
They say something loud and wonderful,
Yet too often the words are mistaken for
Personal
Feelings.
When that is not the case at all.

We live through our writing
Our imaginations.
That is how we thrive.
Little notebooks are scattered
On bookshelves and desks
Around the house.
Reminders scribbled on lined,
Unlined,
Stationary paper.
Random words,
Quotes,
Brilliant ideas.
Ideas that will be
Unused,
Forgotten,
Misplaced.

But the important part is not
That we are writers.
The important part is
That we have readers
And we owe it  to those
Readers
To put forth the beautifully
blunt,
Excruciating
Truth.

It is said that
The journey
Is more important than
The destination.
So if we take
A journey together
Would it have to end
In a destination?

We could simply
Keep going
Churning our lives
Together
Until we become
A mere blend
Of our personalities
Our souls
Our lives.

We could be
Anything we want
To be.

But the journey
Ended in a destination
That I wasn't in.
It ended
With you and her.
As I sit
Disconnected
Detached
Broken.

Watching the screen
Of a tragedy
With no voice
To stop Shakespearian
Madness.

Sometimes the smallest words have the largest meanings;
Love
Hate
and we abuse them so violently.
Fear
Bravery
So I will ask you to ponder
Know
Believe
Which sentences you could have shortened today.

A hand with an iron grip takes your neck,
Claws slipping holes in your tender skin.
The stab in your throat with an ice cold knife
Splitting you down, down, to the scar left by the very cord that gave you life.
You are wide, wide open, so vulnerable.
Your unruly beating heart is oh so exposed.
The glint of steel, push,
It's simple, really.
You implode inwards on yourself.
Warm and cold sensations collide everywhere.
You are broken.
You see yourself on the cold tile floor.
Blackened redness, as dark as your soul,
It pools around you.
It is warm, but your body is cold.
*Fear.
     Fear.
          Fear.