Why aren't there angels

keeping watch, not even here --


in Los Angeles?

It's been almost 3 months since last we met
Almost 3 months since the sun set
On that day long ago, where we cherished great memories
Of a friendship build steadfast on love and history
A short time, yet a grand experience
How glad I was, to see past life's interferance

I would have regret if I got sick of play games
Cause my holidays wouldn't have been the same
How I can use slang so openly is alarming
When I try and act serious, your bring me down to earth, you're charming
A week ends, but a bond doesn't
I almost regret being so hesitant


An owl brings us close, carrying us away with its talons
To you, a girl with many Talents
And to I, who hopes to be valiant
Do you see a mentor in me or a buddy?

Regardless, I cherish our time
and hope that your pure heart never loses it's shine
That you come to see the world as amazing as you made it feel
and that you stay true to heart, and always keep it real

Instinct (and the candor it took)
Kiss me when the intentions are ripe
Longevity is a toothsome notion, as if a guiding music
Has the voice to carry, a welfare from here to sun's light

The seen sought, a voice with more than a lip
Of a marvel meant, and deemed a friend?
To the fate we stir, with all of a hosts extravagance, a wit
Of summary heed, to a lived example, praying to be lent

Caught in a hushed tone, the truth...?
Is for any who would listen, a stone of charisma...?
Caring but for the our of decision, we have let a youth
Become the notoriety of since, and a charity of weal to say:

I grow a fruit, with kindness in mind
Tense and awkward, a hope of sincerity's homage to choose
Between a holier water that laud has to rhyme
Or an earthen seclusion of devotions, if may is to be few

Blow and service to an ideal, a harrowed simplicity to vaunt
The gifts of are, a might the fate of all who came
Or is a wealth its own reward, the other opinion in a song?
With babbling lips, and an echo of hearts, the irony of same...

A course of decision, in the name of solidarity
Sent to effused, if not enthusiasm of coping with worth
As a herald of powers and judged same, as the doting charity
We made the privilege, of a prowess in cares, that is many certain

Heed a friend when they are somber, and justice will come
See a friends need becomes the letter of sigh's, and decency is a gift
Keep a friends shadow in reach, and they will know more than home
Heathen a friends smile, here and now a shared eye will lift

Totals of serendipity?
And the quasi focus, of life on knowledge
With a realm to its unction, the reality of another candid liberty
Has become us, the timid and guaranteed forth, of persuasion come of kinds tenuous age

I was just 13 years old when Vincent Van Gogh took me out to a wheat field and shot me in the chest. He said I'll let you in on the easy way out because eating yellow paint just doesn't help but god, doesn't it sound poetic? He said he craved ***** things in a letter to his brother but when the paint didn't make his art any better he used bullets and blood instead.

I was just 16 when Sylvia Plath opened up the oven for me. My snow boots turned to puddles and the smell of cookies muddled with the gas filling up my head. She said putting words to paper just doesn't hash it and a poets mind is nothing but ashes so better to let the thoughts burn.

I was only 18 when Virginia Woolf tied stones to my hips and led me adrift into open waters. Gasping while my hands struggled to stay above the waves she told me that this was the only way and that stories were just stories. She could write a million of them but never escape the loneliness of being unable to evaporate inside the pages.

I was 21 years old when Ms Monroe told me it was as easy as falling asleep and swallowing some seeds that would feed and feed until they felt like yellow paint. Easy down the throat like the men that she'd known who now tear at my curls. She said wanting to be loved comes at a price that money just can't buy and pills will always be cheaper.

I am 25 years old and have carried their woes down my arms and legs like Marley's chains. All the gun shots and flame rots and drowning spells and yellow pills have beckoned me with promises of a happy ending. They convince me that all artist's lives end the same but I know that they don't have to. So—here I still stand, clutching their art in my hands, braving a world that they were too good for.

Dare the dainty
All in eaves, a dance of we've
Sour regards for a knowing heed, the eclectic key
Wavering in the air, to tell a story of finality

Salt, dust and whatever else
Rhymes with damnation, the tows of veracity
Become like lucky butterflies, the solution in bells
To worth and occur, with a certain mighty...

Sounds of music, to die for
Through the hollow of sunshine we find so warm
The completion of a single thought for avidity, so sore
Has the curiosity of chances, and the decency, only more

Should we shoulder a pathetic distance, from the nerve?
Or is causes guidance, to a realm of liberty ensconced
We woke, and walked to the notion adding, a due friend
With seasons of come, to light the way to sits, of around...

About now
The tale has become ours for a looking have, and the moment gave
Mirrors, seldom fears and a host to what nears
The romance of aptness, for a circle of deem, that has it to save...