Oh, for I shall die and be at peace with peace and darkness.
Darkened roads so black as night is where I'll rest.
Covered with air that chokes the frequent springs of my chest.
Your setting sun is a concept of nonsense,
But then am I not just a traveling man with no license?

Erase my existence as those of previous time lines.
Foolish man uttering words of unknown language kinds.
The scarecrow scares those that come close,
And I was so close to wearing those dull clothes.
Your promises are not even yours now, are they?
A father sending his children to paint.

Rain, rain, rain!
Bringing growth and shape.
Well, my land it has no rain,
Should I die and decay?
But the Penguins said you're great.

Master has a new slave.
For years I've went from one diamond to another with no penny for my services.
Dug holes and buried daffodils,
Dug holes and buried daffodils.
Carried by the spirit that shall give life to my children,
Children to children's children.
I've worked the way of a slave and never let my master carry a *****.
'though time told too many stories of the previous slaves,
I hoped mine was that of the history pages.
The blood drips on my cold knees as I crawl the dark for a meal,
She usually brings me something nice,
Oh master what are we having tonight?

The master's table should be kept clean at all times,
We don't want master eating dirt, alright?
Master is late for her food tonight,
It must be a busy night.
She usually utters of her unwell businesses, I believe she is tired.
I feel the chains on my feet being loose,
Master won't like this one bit.
The trees tell tales of the old berries,
And those that bury often get buried by no one.
Master smiles and tells me to run as she holds a gun counting to ten.
I'd run a bit more faster but my feet are swollen and needs healing.
As the trees come closer, darkness comes to sight and master smiles as she sends the new slave to bury my corpse.

Uneven breathing rhythm
Serene becomes luxurious
One's mind now went unconscious
Fallen into a mayhem

Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.

Stressing up the nerves
Where they have some levels
Where pride will fall off
And the righteous always lose

There were many wrongs
To be corrected, to be proven
Neither they will nor us will learn
From the deeds we have entertained.

Here I am, an Educator, new-formed
And on the verge of ideas and thoughts
That I’m told are too lofty, too grand, for their
Purposes of having students graduate at Funding’s Earliest
Convenience. Administrative charms
Have already told me not to display
Myself and my passions with honesty. I must teach
Like I am greater than them,
Like I approach our stories each
Day with a very very serious
Focus on structure and style and each
Incredibly important
Comma. But I know the Truth.
The Truth is that the richest
I’ve ever felt was when my educational harvest
Had received its lowest return. I first thought, “How shall
I punish? How shall I repay
Your bad behavior's damage with more damage? Your
Misbehavior doesn’t deserve my toil;
Your disrespect was just as bad as their
Records said it would be!” But then my reason
For anger crumbled, and I let love strengthen
My tired and trodden heart, as
I decided to speak to my students with the honesty their
Lives often lack from authority. Intentionality, Honesty, Truth. No amount of years
Will change what I’ve learned in Year Zero: to let love increase.

We're all dying to feel alive,
Are we the living dead?
We hate to love
But we fall in love anyway.
We wander just to get lost,
But we want to be found.
We spend our nights together,
But we feel more alone than ever.
We cover our ears,
Shout across horizons.
What's this sound?
Deafening silence.
Piercing through the noise of the world.

Literature brings me a power,
I forever fail to describe.
As I push my glasses up my nose,
It's my own voice I inscribe.

"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”