I am coerced into loathsome desperation
Unable to elicit a feeling of existence
All because my dreams violently clash with reality

I cannot prevail
I will not survive
I am weak

Failing to hunt down a sufficient supply of motivation
Buried beneath the world of paperbacks
Scrambling to bump into an emotion that will jump start my heart

An adrenaline ****** suffering withdrawal
Tormenting this flaccid ***** in my chest
Please, someone tackle me into relapse

Every attempt to ascend from darkness
Annihilated
With each crash and burn
Extracts the impossible truth

I cannot feel
I do not care
I am dead

Where is the spark that I used to lust for?
Am I Blind or Broken?!

I need to feel
I need to want
I need to prosper

Taunting a pair of keen eyes to electrify my neurons
Demanding a bitten lip to punch a hole in my gut
Slamming bodies against bodies into doorways

Grabbing confidently
Kissing forcefully
Unbuttoning frantically

But...

I can't
Feel
Anything

Love and Lust are one in the same
I can't coddle one without the other

Bedroom ceiling had myriad patterns
Mostly latin symbols as well as horific faces and designs
A dark demon with long fingertips and red eyes taunted me each night
One week straight
Many visited yet none in physical form
Yet seemed so to be
The shadow people were sent to absorb my essence frequently
They were very swift and darty
Yet I could use my hands to dispell them
One night they had one young one with them
You see...they have to be gone before daylight and through open door or  windows
The sunrise approached with young one stuck inside
They pleaded from outside window to save it
Scrambling I kicked out the screen and threw it out
Then from that point on formed an alliance
And would warn me of impending dangers

When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.

From fables to fairy tales,
To folk tales,
To my heart,
I thought wishes come true.

But when I think of you,
My wishes become a curse.

Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.

Death and dismemberment
that's what they bring
while songs sung of heroes
are the tunes that we sing

Soldier on soldier
a body count is the score
but it's the folks who build weapons
who are winning the wars

It's all about money
satisfying their greed
the rich filling their storehouse
while they haven't the need

Today's wars they're for profit
of money, of land
and the worlds children keep dying
as we strike up the band

When will we stop
will it ever end
war, ****** for hire
was not meant as a friend