Come with me
As we walk these streets
Of a city not so fair

I'll tell you a tale
Of a vagabond
Though I shouldn't dare

Magic was his gaze
But a warning
Remember deceiving he be

Love in those baby blues
Is what a certain maid
Of innocent heart would see

Whirls and twhirls
And rhythms of gold
His gypsy song weaved to her heart

And there was born
A romance be sure
Sealed with his scorpion dart

Oh how he stirred
This young maid's soul
And her naive heart gave in

But she was not
Without charms of her own
And in his wandering heart love began

He saw the maid
For what she was
A trap for his gypsy soul

So in haste departed he
Taking his tinkling songs
Leaving on fair maids heart his toll

So fair maids beware
Of this vagabond
An his gypsy stare

poetry
is the ability
to strike someone once
and have the sound resonate
inside them forever

prose
is describing the sound
with more resonances

Writhing on the ground,
Battling for every breath;
She cried for the end:
But in vain, it wasn't yet time for death.

She sat outside in the blackness,
Begging for some flame;
Scared of the dark, she screamed:
But in vain, no comfort ever came.

She felt her fingers tremble in the cold,
And pleaded for some heat;
She gasped, as frost froze her to ice:
But in vain, her heart just ceased to beat.

She came here alone,
And that's how she left;
She cried for someone to save her:
But in vain, she lost her innocence to theft.

She never knew of hatred,
Still, in ignorance, it's what she felt;
She never knew of forgiveness,
But with the relief of death, all her fury began to melt.

She felt her end approaching,
Before it came at the break of dawn;
She stretched towards the rising sun,
And without another sound, she was gone.

These things happen I suppose.
They always happen.
I used to care about something, you know.
I did.
I used to feel something when I stared at the sky.
Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet,
and my lungs have lost their warmth.
The clouds eat me whole as I walk home.
They smile.
Sometimes I do too.
But I've wandered too far this time,
these steps don't look familiar.
Someone still sleeps inside this house,
but it's not me.
Someone still lives inside these bones,
but it's not me.

Maybe, challenge  that   shadows   but    are    words  and
maybe  you       sincerely.      it     in    believe   pride,  seems,
just       to          merely    the    discover   so       their       it
once    see          in         meaning  inside.   hide   in         as
you     clearly.   circles    my      message  will    breathe  solemn
will     love    extremes   dearly,     so         you     can        forever,
find     me           in           my        dreams,  where  reality  rests

Hey dad
Do you remember me?
As a baby?
Do you remember me,
Remembering you?
As newborns typically don't do.
Smile laugh and reach for you.

I imagine the same reaction if
I were to see your face
This Father's Day.

Living is often like drowning, and sleeping like flying,
So bridges and tall buildings always tempt me.
When I talk about death I feel brave.
I've always hated how recognition can so easily turn into pride.
They say pride comes before the fall,
But I believe that various kinds of self-centeredness are the origin of all unholy descents.
I remind myself that I shouldn't take my life because I didn't give it,
And my heart continues to beat on its own.
Blood doesn't stain crimson red,
It darkens and crusts on the skin.
Everything that is dead becomes only a memory,
Then it disintegrates and washes away, eventually becoming nothing.
I can’t remember anything from before I had the ability to reason,
So when did I come alive?
I wonder if all people valued beauty,
Would there be peace?
Because I sometimes wonder whether Neil Armstrong meant to say what he did as took his first step on the moon.
I think trying is as valuable as doing,
But justification is a dangerous tool.
I am cautious of failure and success;
But count this as my eulogy
A list of things that I am going to say before my untimely death.
*I recognized the world for the canvas it was and I didn't waste my life.
My dreams were my motivation,
And they were fueled by those that underestimated me
I walked streets day and night and prayed that I would somehow run into the girl of my dreams,
and when I finally found my missing rib I looked at her like she was a piece of art that I just couldn't keep my eyes off of.
I suffered and I found its nectar bitter-sweet.
I didn't get the best of life, but then I made the best of life.
I never stopped caring,
my love for the unlovable made me daring.
I trusted too easily so I was always broken.
I always found things to love, but they never loved me,
But despite it, I still loved, hard, even though it hurt me.
I couldn't comfort because I had never been comforted.
After a lifetime of battling myself, I finally took off my crown of thorns.
I didn't let the past get the best of me,
I gave the future all of me.
I hated animosity,
War was despicable to me,
And I always preached peace.
I prayed constantly that my efforts would not be in vain.
I never actually could stop sinning,  but despite my ugly sins, I never stopped straining.
I was not perfect, but I did the best I could.
I never ceased to hear the music.
I still played, even when I felt like I was playing solo, I still played my part in this symphony of life.
My eyes were aimed at the director, and we played through the storm,
We played even when all hell was against us,
We played, and played, and played
Until eternity came through.....

There's a faded scar on my right shoulder
from three summers ago,
two more on my left from this winter.
One on my chin from the pavement
that got the better of an 8 year old
who couldn't say "no",
and another on my wrist
to remind me that metal detectors
no longer find me empty.

It's alright that you left,
but please don't act
like I'll just be okay again.
I don't heal well,
never have.