A copse of trees,
slender silver fingers
from the earth,
filling the air
with silent screams.
The leaves they shed
lie at my feet.
They crunch beneath
my heavy heart
the way your
crunch against me
in my dreams.
The velvet sky
swaddles us in
I try to feel alive.
I can't remember why
the flowers do not grow...
I have no
idea where all the ravens
fly when they do not sing
This place looks dead,
as dead as you feel.
of you is all
I will ever have.
it does not feel
like a memory at all.
"I think I made you up inside my head."
Sylvia Plath's poetry
still rots beside my bed.
As if all those 8th grade
library print outs
were waiting for you
to give them purpose.
My melancholy wasn't deep,
my life had no real meaning.
Like a heroic tragedy,
I needed you to inject
into her hollow phrases.
Madness wasn't enough.
I needed to really love,
before real love
could be ripped away
Nobody can ever tell
how much that hole
a necrotic wound
that can never be
I would say my heart
instead grows ever larger,
from an infection of the soul.
You aren't real
but this pain is.
Years of abuse came rushing back
after one moment
of uncertainty from your direction.
I had thought love
must be perfection,
and I was wrong.
This isn't a love song.
This is my head
a note caught between the
I cant help but wonder,
What gives evil such drive
to conquer, to destroy ?
What gives things like
greed, lust, and hate
such power over creation ?
What makes chaos and ruin
And now to think
they're to coexist
with us is hard to believe.
Black is black
because it repels all white.
That only means
its we who chose
to turn against our Light.
i. Do not think she cares about you; her heart is a wasteland and love is the rain the land knows it will not get anymore.
ii. Do not think she feels like you do; she will tear you apart in her effort to love.
iii. Do not think her being happy is good; she destroys everything she touches, ruin is more natural to her than joy.
iv. Do not care about her; no matter what emotion she is expressing all she feels is scorn for you.
v. Do not get close to her; she is a flame and whatever good she once possessed has long since burnt to ashes under its heat.
archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.
this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.
my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.
november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.
for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.
the picture frames will not let me back in.
i / am / absent / here
It takes a great deal out of you to admit you're wrong.
We don't ever like to own up to it.
Being wrong isn't on anyone's bucket-list.
(At least no one's I know)
I will say one pro of any apologetic situation:
It is a terrific weapon.
A decent apology can bring most anybody
to their knees.
Frankly, I think we should all relish the opportunity.
Make amends for losing the battle,
and as a result win the war.
However don't take this weapon lightly.
It will jade you.
Ruin your concept of sincerity.
Not just for yourself, but for others.
We must never forget that sometimes we really are
I apologize, dear friend, I seem to have ruined your dinner party
with all my talk of apology.