I try to spit my heart out
To the side of my bed,
Double over and ***** out the memories
Every time I think of you,
So that every time the door opens
It wipes into a bigger score,
When we tried to be good to you,
Remember but, we were not.

And I wonder how
How do we fail so gloriously
When we see the hurt
As clear as the oversized neon signs,
Piling over each other
Over bulky building
Crafted with fragile glass
And sharp corners,
Rusted bars colored twice.

We try to save a few
But **** so many,
We make wider roads
"Four ******* lanes" we boast,
But we tear down homes.
And every time I served you
I thought of your brothers
We stole you from
And I pray they be good
But how will they
Since you were gone?

And I stare at butterflies with awe
But run from the worms,
They make me itch and swell
I cannot help,
And I know, I know
Why we fail so gloriously
And yet try so miserably
To save others.
Why, did you ever see the sorrow
In the sky when she pours
To refill the oceans she emptied,
And we dare to think
We will save others
To save ourselves.

And all that I remember
Is that it was I who killed you.

I'm sitting in my room,
writing,
believing that I can change the world,
knowing that I can't,

I'm sitting here, alone,
I'm thinking of those who are suffering,
those who've lost everything,
those, who will never feel like home.

I'm sad,
feeling like crying,
wishing to save the world,
knowing well that I won't,

but something tells me
to keep on trying.

And maybe
you could have saved yourself
but she was worth drowning.

everything is you
you are everything
but things change
you're now nothing

days after nights
I stare at the stars
is this the universe I see?
or the emptiness of your eyes

you wonder deep
so deep that I couldn't reach
I tried , I tried to save you
but I was late.

"you are the flower that sat upon winter, now you die because of summer"

i counted seventeen vultures
circling above to rend my spoiled flesh apart
and feed me to their starving children

i thought i saw a raven
mocking my unfortunate fate
perched solemnly on a chiseled granite bust
weeping with plutonian ponderings

as the foolish crows
sang me a heartless elegy
the epistles crumbled to ashes in my palms
and my fountain pen dried out
into blotted shadows

if only heaven were to open up
and save me from the ominous darkness
but there's no room for another soul
to save; no vacancy to give

so i huddle beneath the branches
of the dying willow tree
and waited for them to take me alive.