The libraries and bookstores of the world
Are stocked with pleasantries:
Prim, proper, peach juice-oozing volumes
That made the grade.

These books are all well and good,
        And are not unworthy of examination,
Simply because they were deemed so
By a jury of your peers.

Make note, however,
Of the myopia inherent
In limiting yourself
To the savoury.

Observe:

Past the shelves of
        Well-lit,
        Worn-covered
        Thoroughly thumbed delicacies,
There is more to be seen.

Do not hesitate to approach the shelves
Wreathed in thorns and security tape
And kept under dim bulbs.

The books that lurk there
Are sealed tight
And wear jackets plastered in sludge:
Sludge laid thick by heavy-handed brushstrokes.

Prying open the padlock
Will sometimes reveal
Further grime coagulated upon the pages.

Further prying, however,
Will split open tomes
Scrawled with fractures of light,
Lending to the eye
An illumination unique
To such tarred works.

Do not fear these banned books,
These veiled wonders,
For they contain pure, unscreened scrawlings
Soulfully wrought upon simple scraps of paper.

It is within these that truth can be found.

The soil is boiling.
Noxious fumes rise from fissures.


Ice cubes and air-fresheners
Are thrown down from the mansion windows
And we are expected to go to war.


To war, where we will get to be
    Harvested by machine guns,
    Throttled by creeping yellow-green,
    And drowned in ice
        While our blackened feet fall to pieces.


Blind old Nikolai
Can't see the flames
Burning behind thousand-yard-staring eyes
Sunken into one hundred million hollow faces.
    Hollow faces etched into the night
    By the glow of mortar blasts
    And factory fires


He revels in ineptitude
While our agonizing joy
Is found in the next teasing grey sunrise
As we seek to one day return
To the torn and tear-dampened recollections in our pockets.


While a colonel weeps into a photograph,
The wife of his brother weeps into a telegram
    As her cousin is getting his vocal cords clipped out in the streets of Petrograd
        And his father is being eviscerated upon factory

Yes, Nikolai;
The soil is boiling
And I will live, I must live
If only to see the day
That it crumbles beneath you.

A lips that touch like an angel
Speaks so heavenly towards me
If a thousand of shooting stars would fall
I would then write all of it in my poetry

Hail the angel of mercy
It fly by my shoulder and set me free!
It was never my intention to fall in love in a passionate way
But he makes me feel so special what else can i say?

I am human yes i am!
i am stronger than i had never been..this is what i am..
My life once been in a constant misery
I had never felt contentment never been so happy..

If its wrong then you can cut the life in me
If its a sin then who are you to judge me?
I only did what i think for me is best
I only did what makes me happy atleast..

Been in my cave for a long time
My best of friend is this ****** bottle of wine
All i want now is to be free
To live my life not on lies but all in all honesty!

Loyalty, that is the word
I once made it my principle and now it seems absurd!
To be in love means you have to suffer?
But what if, if it makes you feel better?

I am human yes i am!
I am not afraid to love and get hurt
For EVEN love broughts you a thousand needles
I will take that needles
I rather be strong walking forward than be a wussy and being idle..

Point your finger at me, judge me!
what wrong have i done besides choosing to be merry?
Rather than be the slave of my own misery
Its my ****** life just set me free!

I rather choose to be the master of my own self
Than to be a stranger now of what i felt
yes i am human i am!
Now accept the truth and let bygones be bygone..

My life is a poem,
Written by my creator.

I live through a poem of words
Not thought up by me
Or anyone here.
Why can’t I know what will be written?

Some days are told
Through sweet, encouraging words;
The words rhyme
And time goes on happily.

Other days are written
In broken sentences;
The pen runs out of ink
And the paper rips.

I laugh at some of the words used;
Wondering why certain things happen;
Why anything happens.

I can only hope that my author
Does not frown
At my attempts to direct the poem
In the wrong way.

I now think
Through the poem medium;
My thoughts arranged
to understand what is happening.

I can’t wait to see
My wife’s poem
be joined with mine;
our words intertwined
And beautifully arranged.

All around me, I see endless fear.
Fear of heights, sure, fear of scuttling things
Fear of darkness, fear of bites
Fear of brightness, fear of fights.
This is the fear we can display
Because it’s little, simple, understandable.
But the fear I really fear
That we all let consume us
Is deeper,
Darker,
Cold.
It’s the fear of friendship, fear of love,
Fear of what’s ahead of us
But even more of what’s behind us
Fear to see what’s really beyond
The faces we all fake.
Fear of the unknowable
Fear of what we know
Fear of speaking out or up or for
Fear of conforming to something more
Fear to test the limits
Fear to taste the truth
Fear of what’s uncomfortable
Rather than the deception of comfort
Fear of what to do
Fear of striving for perfection
When perfection’s so unattainable.
Fear of to leave what has been known
Fear of what has been done
Fear to see past fabrication,
Fear to show the truth.
I’m talking fear of emotion
Or fear of not feeling enough
Fear of silence, but worse,
The fear of candid words.
Fear to look someone in the eye
And say, “I know you,
And I care for you.”
Fear to let someone see the darkness that comes with your light
Fear of rebelling though it’s time someone did
Fear of doing what you want and know
Because of what someone told you you should
Fear of being who you are
Because every day everyone is telling you
What to do and who to be
And what is acceptable
And what is not.
I’m talking fear of having an opinion
Because someone will shoot it down
Fear of defense or service or selflessness
Because someone won’t approve.
Fear to accept because of fear of acceptance
Fear to truly love someone
Because it’s risky,
And you never know
What someone else really feels.
I cry for the fear of
Every person who can’t be
Who they are and who can’t
Let people see them in their entirety
Because after all everyone urges
And persuades and demands and values
And idolizes and expects,
You don’t even know yourself,
Because you've been too busy
With trying to be so many different
“Someone Else"s.

I ache for this relentless fear.
I mourn the stagnancy of the condition
Of the human soul who is so afraid
To let go of fear
And BE somebody,
To do something or say something, or simply believe,
That the only thing they truly trust
Is the familiarity
Of fear itself.
That’s why fear is frightening
That’s why we should be afraid of fear
Because it stops us, cages us,
Bars us behind the façade we display
And muffles the words of our heart.

I see these things and wonder
Why can’t they change?
Why can’t this need to fear be erased
From the human condition?
And I realize it’s because everyone
Is afraid.

And I’m so afraid too.