writing can sometimes be a curse,
as much as it is a gift
it is beautiful to move people with your words,
it can also be quite devastating
when you can't even string words together
in order to bring comfort to a heart that is breaking
right before your eyes

:'(

These words
They haunt me
Or so it seems
Incessant currents
Of poetic streams
Beauty
And love
Pain and sorrow
Troubling pasts
And dreams for tomorrow
Crumpled up
Paper
And piles of regret
Deemed unworthy
They make me upset
Memories burn
I'll never forget
They turn
And they churn
Inside of my head
Restless
Not sleeping
I'm writing instead.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its wild sativa;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its tamed alcoholic.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its endless freedom;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its slavery to freedom.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its philosophic heart;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its down-regulation of joy.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is its search for silence;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is its capacity for noise.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the free meal;
the worst thing about being a wander
is the free meal.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the love of night;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the love of day.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is the wandering heart;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the gypsy heart.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its magic book;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its accumulated curse.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its varied muse;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its lack of one.

it was who we are;
you're a self-centered *******
and I'm the greedy *****
how you **** my mind
by telling me I'm too much
like how I never satisfy
with the space of your heart
but we have one thing in common;
we are too crazy about each other

This feeling is like a curse
As they drive away in a long black hearse
The dark and gloomy sky
Shudders then starts to cry
A father consoles a mother
While holding a child
The dead's brother
For a moment they stay
Unable to look away
I try to call out
But they don't seem to hear my shout
These feelings I feel
Fill me to the brim
A new light has been shed
It was me
I was the one dead

An open mind is an open vein.

Insane thoughts convey into Cain intravenously then pour out vicariously through Ables brain like a river created from fruitful rain.
 
I don't want to be like Cain or end up like Able, to live disabled and brittle or serve a god and live as a biblical *******.

Realism on a canvas of skin and bone painted by a hand led by sin and the unknown, a brothers keeper estranged with the blood of his own

kept in a state of strife and decay with only dead crops and his thoughts, hes cursed with the lasting of life.

Don't do know then I won't.

I wish i could reverse
The cure i accidentally
Placed on you
This tests my waters every time i think about it
I just want you to be remain unscathed
While you continue your life without anymore pain
I'm always relentless on being cognizant with people's feelings
But when i mess up, i guess it's jackpots for Satan.
I'm so sorry
I feel worse than any Saturday morning cartoon villain can ever aspire to be.