A man (why is it always a man)
Stands over me advising me where to go
What to do
Not do

The man is always alone

How to talk of such things
When suitable words make a game of hiding;
verbs and adjectives are not rich enough in describing?

How to speak of such things
When a brittle voice trembles in the mentioning,
Tongue tied trickery trips every uttering,
While throat clench tightly trapping sentences to the point of suffocating?

Who to hear of such things
When guttural grunts are all that come crashing
and gasping breaths are too weak for their releasing
While listeners impatiently tilt heads from my scratchy stuttering?

Who to read of such things,
When the vagueness of text can't hold true meaning
and impulsive eyes leave print that is boring,
When you can't fault the font because it is indifferent to what you are attempting?

All the while the essence of a poem is slipping,
opportunity to grasp it is fading
and inspiration waning
The moment wilting
efforts are dying.

I put words in to rhymes
and I call it poetry
my mind on paper
to help keep my sanity.
You may not like my poems
think they're basic and lacking
but my words are my art
from my heart that is cracking.
If you read through my soul
and find that you can relate
that's all I can ask for
from poets so great.
So give me critiques
cut my words down to size
make them bleed out
the feelings inside.
Help me, don't hurt me
just give me your wisdom
show me how to grow
and I'll feed off your criticism.

Structure.

Stability.

Rigidity.

Critical view.

Thoroughness.

Totality.

Honesty.

my moral metabolism escapes me
trapped in decaying flesh
these combustible meanings
and disarming thoughts
it's like seeing the word in greyscale
through canine eyes
translating the future into wet dreams
and false disciplines
we move mountains but see only jewels
brainwashed societies block out sun rays
and trap beasts within walls

eat my heart
I no longer want it
make me a tin can
program me
create an automaton
I'd rather see in greyscale
it's pale I know
but it doesn't hurt
to lack feelings when they should be present
depend only on my metallic casings
become indifferent to this worlds meaningless agony
my notions and emotions
these eyes will be void of consciousness
lost in unoccupied nothingness
believe me
delete me
reformat my existence
I want to see in greyscale

Was this not what you wanted?

A sliver of hope--
Instead you ended by shivering out on that unsteady-tipping *****.

And for all those somethings, I hadn't  know,
well, I had to let them go.
Now I am, all alone.
But hey, it's not like you would've know--
Too lost to see through your own moats murky waters.

Was it One; Two; or Three;
Captured sirens swimming with you,
within your clouded judgement?

Or is it, One; Two; or Three;
Vile hags trampling with you,
within your undeserving life.

Are you feeling empty yet?
Or are you full of your lies?

It appeared to be a feast--
While in harsh reality, you were plucking at nothing...
Nothing except brittle bones.

Its all a shame,
for it was a dream spun upon spindle--
Lost in a cowards looping *****.

Was this not what you wanted?
                Hmm-
          What a shame...
          What a shame...

He will appear out of nowhere with his confident stature,
animated laugh,
the body that you could only assume is an illusion,
comparable to a Greek god.

He will draw you with his beaming features-
his perfect mouth upon his perfect face with his perfect eyes
that are looking only at you
as if you are worthy to even see something so beautiful.

His radiant allure derives from a level of bliss and euphoria you'd never seen anyone acquire
and you don't want to leave his light.

His intellect will entice you
even more so than the essence of his beauty
and his soul will mirror kindness and freedom.

You will deny him any interest despite his perfection
and you will do this for a long time.

You'll wake up to kiss his face in the mornings
and you'll see the emotion in his eyes
when he tells you what you do to him.

You'll avoid the conversation when it's staring into the face of the future and asking questions about tomorrow.

He'll cook for you (significantly better than anything you could cook yourself)
and he'll watch your favorite cartoons and
you'll relay inside jokes that make you both feel at home with each other.
This will be both comforting and terrifying and
you'll wonder why you won't let yourself feel the way he wants you to.

You'll scan his face and find it exactly as flawless as it's always been, abnormally beautiful even,
and you cannot decide why he's there wanting you.
But he is.

And your weariness will leave you on emotional standby and undoubtedly conflicted.

Give me your inspiration.
Come on, you have enough already.
This isn’t fair, I protest;
how is it that you can create
a dozen pretty iced-cupcake poems
a day and I can’t?

Honestly –
sharing is caring.
I don’t want it all,
just a little bit.
A tenth will suffice.
It won’t take much from you,
I swear! you’ll still be writing
ten-point-eight cupcakes
a day.
Now would that be so bad?

No? Well, then.
Be like that.
It’s not like
I need inspiration …