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.

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.

Often the little kid in me asked,
How can people like this exist?
Two faced , hurtful and manipulative!
Grew up developed a hard coat,
To endure this dance with the devil .

The two pronged diabolical ways,
To see through this thick haze ,
Brazen - till the void grew bigger,
My heart once again set ablaze,
Twisted skills need no praise.

Do I play fairly with them ?
Do I twist my own ways ?
Should I really endure this pain ?
Will they not do this again?
Repeating misdeeds is their bane!

Should I even care or distance ?
Let them stay in their own pretense ,
Let their stares pass through,
The ghost of my wrath pass them,
Should I bind my lose ends in a hem?

What a waste of my time and energy,
They are but beasts from down below.
Creatures of these kind do persist,
My boredom is not their grand heist.
This exasperation should not exist !

I bow down to the force within,
Shed this coat of human existence,
Outwitted by reaction to the mundane,
I secure my stance to be sane.
Let not these thoughts bother once again!

I almost lost you twice this month,
Almost stuck a blade in my heart.

Tomorrow is March 15th,
A well-known time of bad luck.

I'll be looking over my shoulder every turn,
Be wear the ides of March.

73 drafts,
73 finished poems,
73 pieces I can't post,
73 plus instances of 502,
Bad Gateway.

can you tell me
why all these
young girls
with long
beautiful hair
soft luscious cheeks
sumptuous curves
adoration for vegan
virtuous fighters of oppression
woke to the point of irritation
their love for queer
impeccable music taste

can you tell me
why they
drape themselves
in death wraps
secondhand
blood-infused frocks

insidious corpses
stitched together
for what
to keep warm
when it drops to -2

can you tell me
why complacency wins