It's 8 o'clock in the morning
And I still thinking about the warning
That I got while I was eating
At buffet where they are seeking
Someone like a silly and to bully

And I was the perfect choice for that
As there was nothing in me but fat
And now here I am, sitting and crying
In the bathroom tearing and dying,
Of the pain that's a feeling and a dealing
With this kind of self-appealing

There they come, with a smile on their faces,
With a knife and cigarettes
Scratching and burning my skin to ashes
What do i need this kinda treatment?
Just because I got a belly and cheeks,
Makes me the one to see these freaks?

They say April is a month of rebirth, a month of healing.
What a lie. April is a *****—a wolf in sheep’s clothing—giving you just enough hope that you can stop and smell the roses, only for it to unzip its outer skin, forcing a thorn to strike you in the eye.
They say death comes in threes, but they don’t tell you that April’s showers of misfortune come tenfold, never ceasing, leaving you gasping for air.
Eventually, the storm will stop, as it always does, and I’ll be there in fields of wildflowers, soaking up the sun. After all, I’m good—just a little tired.

There's something to be said for superstition,

It never seems to let you down,

Now it's to the point,

I wont even pass my cat,

She did nothing wrong,

But her label is bad.

Slowly taken away
What at some point
Felt like would be
Impossible to live without
Maybe for the best
Although that feels like a stretch
The heat of you means so much
Gives me space between time
And love to unwind when depressed
Despite confusion at times
Over the situation of our relationship
Wouldn’t trade places for anything
That would be a great waste
So as where we were withdraws
From the places once so familiar
Which are now merely nostalgia
They still hold such importance
New beginnings extend from the ending
And brings hope for reconciliation
That would be my preferred choice
Doesn’t always work like that
Sometimes relapses occur
Making you sink amidship
Crashing against the waves
As oceanic whirlpools stir wonderment
Tides drawing painterly crestfallen essences
Which create an atmosphere of resentment
Making pirates out of fishermen
Fleeting ships firing horrific elegance
Departing for lands of exploration
Returning when tired
And making amends
Slipping into old habits
Feeling an indifference within yourself
You thought things had changed
And they have

they wrote a good poem,
they were acknowledged, approved, SEEN-
** my lonely, broke heart;
you yet have me.
ah and the other me too--
This one, that spites and spews and vitriols as lovers often
are wont to do.
ah my love,
yes, come,
CLOSE (
and no that was a whisper not
A SHOUT! (THAT WAS THOUGH!))
so close,
that -
drop, drop,
sssssssss,
the whistle
wouldnt budge
and it is time,
to find love ANEW now,
and begin
this new life of ours.

A black swan moves through silent streams,
With wings of night, it haunts the dreams.
It wears its sorrow, cloaked in dark,
A soul that drifts, lost in the arc.

But there, beside it, pure and bright,
A white swan dances in the light.
Its feathers shine, its heart is free,
A symbol of what good can be.

Two swans that glide, yet worlds apart,
One carries shadows, one a heart.
In every soul, both dark and pure,
The swans of fate forever endure.