I Can't accept the truth baby, ignorance is bliss. I can't escape the memories of all that this is. Rather let them fade away to champagne thrills, falling off the edge of abyss.
Rather let them fall like I fell for you. Like the ashes, burning off of this cigarette.

Cause I knew it from the start.
Every second, every time. I knew you'd break my heart every time we spoke a rhyme.
I knew it'd fall apart.
Couldn't say that you were mine.
But that's just want I want to say because I know it's time.
So ask me how I feel.
I can't tell what's real.
Insist that we would fall apart until you sealed the deal.
I wish you said loved me like you said you used to feel.
and I wish youd call me baby
cause you know I'd hope it's real.

But how can I love you if I never loved myself? Like everyday I wake up wishing I was someone else.
Cause everyone I know has seen a better side of hell.

And you know I fall apart, in the darkness by myself.

If gestures be great wonders, I'd build you the pyramids.
They'd be as vast and grand as when we gaze into the universe,
telling tall tales of stars.

And It'd be just you and me.

We'd connect the dots in our hearts
Well past twilight, in the charm of the dark.
and pick our thoughts apart.

We'd dance like pups and sing our songs
like the foolish children that we are.
We'd ride the same frequency
revel in our indecencies

We'd breath winds of nostalgia.
reliving vibrant memories.

We'd laugh and joke
Listen to rock and roll,
smoke northern lights and boundless joys
while music vibes with our souls.

We'd fall asleep
trading treats and body heat.

We'd dream of fairy-tale love
until the next time we meet.

And It'd be just you and me.

♪ ☠♫☃

Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.

The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred – no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).

You  phonies scrolling Twitter-blink,
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.

The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom –
as if it wasn’t dark enough.

The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.

The killer grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines, the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.

The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears

He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.

She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(That free-verse wielding abstract clown!)

Behold her grave – where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander with bemused disgust).

Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder – life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !