You don’t deserve these poems
You deserve the silence you enforced upon me
I write these for me and me only
My private refuge. Just me and pain

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened
The silence. The cold
Like a train wreck so mangled it’s impossible to know where it begins and ends

I can remember the exact moment I realised
Realised you’d gone... again
Gone and broken every promise we’d ever made
Flung me into darkness

you were my father
and i was your daughter
until i told you i fell in love
with her
until i told you i despised
the meanings of gender
until i told you i was not
a replica of you
until i blurred that picture perfect
image of the person
you wished me to be

It was easy to get lost in you
You were everything I wanted
But through the fabrications of my mind I created a current of falseness
I was washed away by my own reassurance

I felt that I could replace what You couldn't give me

Love

Now I exist
In the skeleton of love
Buried deep where the warmth of you
Can't reach me

The after shocks of your heart beating
For someone else still drives me crazy

You were the budding flowers of spring
Those fragrant flowers I once loved
Now all I know is the foul stench of a rotting tree

You took me
And broke me

Now I have to pick up the pieces
And rebuild Myself

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.

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

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

I'm S low ly
  S
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f
f
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