I just need some time away
To remember why I stay.
I dig my grave- a lifeless slave.
Busting away at earth
With my plague
Of words.
Build me up
To shoot me down
In the street with everyone watching.
You cannot **** the idea of peace,
Only the people who march
To its immaculate tune.
Leeching off of teachings
Of those who fought
These same battles
Before us-
In yesterday's’ pages of history.
You cannot ban words
From the herds
In a country that advertises
Freedom of speech.
The summer peach
Is turning grey.
Can you tell me
Why I stay?

You taste the lips of a hundred fragmented men.
Boasting that your divine secularity exalts you a writer of better poetry.
The cries of 12 men are more artistic than the drabness of one.
You forgot to peek in to the kaleidoscope of every angle.
A ravaging between your thighs signals the only sense you have awakened.
It’s bellow so great it drowns out the miraculousness of every other sensation. Stuffing love’s nomothetic void with the resound of the broken cultured man.
Your prowess is not poetry, but the neglect of it.
Your myriad of lovers elicit the lack thereof.
Are you a tormented poet or is this simply a masquerade of whorery?
You drape the silk sheen around your shoulders and dial up the only poetry you have ever come to know.

=</>~&#$!(^)%-'@+

Think                                             ­  h
                    Th   ink                        e
   Ov ert  hink                                  l
                    ­                                      p
   . . ...                                                

Psygopath m i  n    d                      m
                                ­                          e
   . ... .
                                                           i
You Didn't Just                                '
Let Me                                              m

be            ­                                          d
                     ­                                     y
Torn Like                                         i
                                                          n
   T                                                     g
h
                a
          t
...

I'm S low ly
  S
     u
f
f
   o
c
  a
t
  i
n
   g

=</>~*&#$!(^*)%-'@+

I wonder how much
we say to each other is true
You always say the right thing
and I doubt your sincerity
It's not like
I'm always on the ball
I'm human and stumble sometimes
but you
never falter
and I wonder
if I'm insecure
or if
I don't know the truth


-em vidar

Somehow,
After all these days,
I still don't remember.
Where did you go?
Where did I leave you?
When you walk out that door,
Leaving me torn,
You're teaching me to live without it.
But still we wonder.
When we all fall asleep,
Where do we go?

Home is
   Longing for a different view
   Sitting in a tiny bedroom, watching the birds fly
Envious of their freedom

Anywhere else I
   Feel the incessant tug of my family that want me back
   Simultaneously longing for the Friday night card games
And laughing with my mother

You’re not the only one,
A broken record playing those few words,
My thoughts dragging in circles, overrun.

All the late nights,
Watching all the flashing lights,
Nights filled with lust turned to rage.

Thinking of you,
Back when we felt the same,
Before you started disappearing.

Guess what, she rang today,
Boasting about your new family,
You don’t even know about the one you left behind.

A brand new life,
Torn to pieces by your inability to sit still,
You cut yourself out like a serrated knife.

My little sunflower,
With all the faith of Peter Pan,
Your absence won’t ever drown her.

A light flickers for five seconds.
A light goes dark.
A light shines for five seconds.
A light goes dark.
All is light, all is dark.
All is scene, all is lost.

In all the light, all I see is you.
In deepest dark, all I seek is you.
When the light blinds my eyes,
You’re what brings me sight.
When darkness steals my eyes,
You’re presence holds me tight.
Through sharpest light, and darkest night.

Her coverless-tattered state proved the journeys she had gone through.
Her old purple spine was scratched and bent,
Yet still beautifully intact.

The woman who brought her up filled her with stories,
Delicately placing each powerful word,
Gently building her up page by page,
Giving her a story to call her own.

She told her story to each reader,
Each page turn,
Every emotion.
Her pains in every paragraph,
Her charisma in every character,
Her love in every line,
Her tears in every tear.

She was worn
Yet brand new.

She held a strong font,
Each bold showing her power to change something,
Each italization expressing her importance.

Every time her story was told if affected a new person.

Crinkled and worn pages gave life a new meaning,
Provided a new definition of friendship, gave a new reason to live,
Provided a new reason to love.
She taught everyone something,
Giving away her everything.

She was judged for her looks by many,
But loved for her contents just as much.