His knuckles turned white
Yet he refused to let go
He is laughing with his inner soul
Yet no recognizes it

Is something the matter?
No...
Then why are you laughing like a madman?
Its laughter from the inner soul.. fool

OH MY
WE HAVE A FREE THINKER
JAIL HIM.
HE WILL BE A THREAT TO THE NATION
HE WILL BE OUR DOOM

*This is true. The people who tell us the truth, are called TERRORISTS or THREAT TO THE NATION just because they have the ability to tell the world what the government is actually doing, whatever happened to free speech...

I've only written poems about love.
Most of them-
filled with angst, overflowing
not unlike
a flooded river,
maybe the Nile
in spring.

I don't really use lipstick,
or mascara for that matter,
because makeup,
is just something to hide behind
a shield that people are trying to cast off
every day.

writing a poem without inspration is like
trying to describe a chocolate eclair
without taste buds.
Maybe that's why
this is so hard to write.

But I had pleaded for another wish,
on a birthday candle, one day in May
Blowing the little flame out,
I rode my hopes on that little spark,
making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes.
Maybe I missed one,
I'm not sure-
because that wish still hadn't come true, to today.

The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear
my only comfort
against this dismal highway.
And my earbuds are unbalanced
the right one louder then the left
and no matter how much I tilt my head
it's still uneven

Someone once told me
"Tears taste like the ocean"
that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying,
"Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow."
I held that as an act of kindness,
one of the few close to my heart.

The taste of coffee is too **** bitter.
Yet I crave it,
holding its warmth against my hands
and blowing the excess steam off.
Starbucks, in winter.

When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered
do angles really have halos?
do devils really have horns?
Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all?
"Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut
and getting up to get another book
called
Lord of the Flies

The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now
4:45 a.m in the morning
I couldn't sleep.
So I check my email-
it says
You have no messages.
For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone.

I wonder
if people these days would ever write something,
just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews
or compliments
of others.
I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact,
writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments,
telling me
"You're worth it"
and
*"amazing."

I know it means nothing,
but my heart is fluttering in my chest
because of those silly words that you said.

I need to find reality,
*but for now I'll ride this high.

The night is at it's darkest
right at the point when it's not sure
if it's late night or early morning.

And I'm up and wanting to go somewhere
away from this boring place
where I am trapped at the night.

I never want to get up and do something during the "waking hours"
The sun is too hot, to forceful, I don't know...

The moon is cool, peaceful.
Inviting you to do something on your own.


But I'm stuck not just to a house, but to a single room.

I wish I could get out and do my own thing.



And I will......someday.....