We are not judged by how we die,
but how we choose to live
and I don't quite know why
but I feel just about ten seconds shy
of becoming a hero.
I feel like Nero, fiddling
while I watch my passions burn.
With no stones left to turn,
I find myself taking the time it takes
to leave myself alone.
With a heart encased in stone,
I watch angels give their wings away
for a moment of staying on the ground
and I see cacophonies jeer, shout and cheer
without ever making a sound.

i owe you a confession
i'll never be yours again

as to why, i'm sure you know, but we keep lulling ourselves with the lies of a perfect utopia, where we can continue to frolic in the endless meadows, not a care to the problems of the world

i owe you a confession
i love you
but you disgust me

so deeply i keep on denying, i keep on telling myself that it's just the guilt of not being with you
the guilt of what could have been
but when we are pressed against each other in a tight embrace, and i pull back, and look into your eyes
there is no perfection
there is no shameless love

there's only sorry

you're sorry for what you did, sorry you still feel for me
i'm sorry that i can't just move on, that i can't just make myself feel

sorry that i like toying with you
sorry that you let me do it without even noticing

and you are probably too nervous for words
and i'm probably too nervous for actions
because we both know we should just kiss and deal with it
let the world perish around us as the flames of our romance burn up the place
let our eyes flutter shut, let our heartbeats drum against each other in a frenzy like no other

but you are too afraid to ask
and i'm too afraid to do

not because it would be right
not because it would be wrong
but because it would shout a truth we both don't want to hear
that however perfect we are for each other
we are uncapable of loving without fear, loving without hoping for change, for something else, for something better

and we can't look away

once i was yours
but you were drunk with my trust, blindly staggering in the sea of possibilities, getting dragged away from shore
but i looked on and let you drift away
that's when i knew we weren't meant to be

i let myself be fooled

i let myself be told that i am loved, to the face, while i knew about the knife behind your back
and oh it came down with sweet slow agony, slicing, ripping me apart like nothing before

but we kept on smiling
we keep on smiling still
and in our smiles there's the truth shouting that we don't want to listen to

that my smile hides pity
while yours hides hope
and i'm disgusted by myself for making you believe i only flinch in surprise when you touch me
that i let myself relax when you embrace me
that i feel a kindling in my hear when you go down on one knee and offer your soul to me

but there's only horror inside

because i realise now that we are equals

The slam poet sings his songs of false hope,
feigning poetry and swinging his hips in time
with his ego. He is patient with his beer, nestling
it into his confidence like sugar in the blood.

I remember him telling me that poetry belonged
to a voice, that silent passions only go so far in
getting you laid. He held a joint between his
fingers, and then drew his name in the air.

It lasted just a moment; a flash in the pan.
He said that this was the essence of poetry,
of music and art: 'You cannot possibly hope
to live forever through printed word alone.'

We sat in the beer garden listening to cover bands
and arranging our set-lists for an upcoming gig.
He crossed out most of my suggestions
in favour of ****-breaks and introductions.

I remember telling him after my fourth whiskey
that I wring my hands in between writing verses,
swallowing pills and jittering my leg in time
with slow jazz tunes and next door's bass-line.

To that he said: 'forget the oldies, forget Christ;
nothing that dies will come back again. Poetry is dead.
We are in love with Frankenstein's monster,
and we'll only kiss each other in electric bursts.'

The slam poet went back to his backlit stage.
I sat at the back and started on my fifth.
There was a blonde girl in a blue dress, mouth open.
Her eyelashes curled. I was persuaded to sing.

We allowed the lies of our lives to expire, when we used to dance around fires, while the heat of our bodies perspired to the gods without names that we lived to be desired by, that we saw from the rocks and the trees to the birds in the sky, and even though this once bitter soul might try, to figure out the deepest questions, the ultimate, 'why?' He's left to walk alone, in a world that's let its heart die, because we gave into the greed, and negated a need, from every drop of blood that we bleed, to the words of our fathers we didn't heed, so we can beg while we plead, in the dirt, on our knees, breaking pottery, and scraping bone, the only grievance we've ever known, the gnashing of teeth, from the torture we've shown, to those less than worthy for the fortune we've claimed as our own, this destruction we left on the shoulders of our descendants, their discomfort prevalent from the weight of our pendants, that we parade around as we hear a cascade in sound, that cries from the heavens, 'We're broken, please mend us!'. But we neglected the ones who defend us, the ones who turn every trend against us, because our hearts are shallower, and we give in to the devourer, when we should have found a love, and with selflessness empower her, with our mouths, and hearts shower her,  with all the grace and emotion, that could prevent a commotion, if only we could for the sake of our devotion, give up the notion that we are owed something, because we crowned ourselves queen and king, though to the table we've nothing to bring, instead with jubilation our hearts should sing, until the bells in every temple, church, and house of our gods ring.

If you haven’t noticed this town is a very small place,
And it makes me wonder about the type of people that live here.
Now there is diversity of origin with every kind of race,
But there’s a type of race that is starting to disappear.

That race is an economic one called the working class,
It is heavily getting replaced by what we normal folk call the wealthy.
These people drive their shiny Mercedes like their whole life was a free pass,
And they flaunt their money around to the point where it’s unhealthy.

They buy their cookie cutter mansions up like they’re buying Taco Bell,
Spending a million dollars on a house for four surely isn’t ridiculous.
And maybe it wouldn’t be if the other 99% of America could do it as well,
But we have a lack of money that makes us a bit more meticulous.

We aren’t able to buy a new house or a new car just because we want to,
And we sure as hell can’t afford a Porsche or a Corvette.
Unlike you we have our sad little low paying jobs to do,
Yes, I’m totally sure sitting in your office chair really makes you break a sweat.

But the worst part of it all is these rich people will have a daughter or a son!
And they’re gonna grow up to be just like their mother and father.
It’ll be like watching a reality tv show rerun,
They’ll be wasting the same money and being the same bother.

My children will be working just to buy enough gas for their car,
While these kids will ask mommy or daddy for a new watch or phone.
But I guarantee you the working class kids will go twice as far,
As the little rich kids who will grow up always expecting a loan.

They say having good friends is like winning the lottery,
Well who gave me a fake winning ticket?
Every friend that comes and goes is just a mockery,
Of my undying kindness even for those who don’t return it.

Is it dumb to believe in the phrase “Best friends forever”,
Or am I just stuck in my 2002 kindergarten playground?
People seem to drop me like a bird sheds a feather,
And I am unwillingly isolated by the time I am found.

I was not aware that friends were like snacks in a vending machine,
Picked and chosen when it is most convenient for you.
I guess I am the little pack of crackers stuck in between,
The chips and the Mountain Dew.

God forbid that machine runs out chips and drinks,
Because then you may have to settle for my boring ******* ***.
And maybe for once it actually won’t be a jinx,
But it’s too late I am no longer a convenience so I shall pass.