If you were a flower
I'd drown you in water,
burn you after you died,
and keep the ashes under
my mattress,
then craft a poem
out of your roots,
and toss your soil
into a lake.

cheap makeup covered
the purple marks of his "masculinity"
forced upon her in the hours of
coal, coldness and blame.

before it got too much,
I saw her stand on her tiptoes
and dissolve into the night sky,
into the night gutters,
into the night cries,
of pills, diets and mutters.

and right as the moon
swallowed her whole,
only to spit her out onto
guilt soaked mornings;
she survived.

I remember the sound of her scream.
Echoing like the sound nails make
when scratched against a chalkboard.
I remember the smell of her blood.
Smelling like her last drop of life left.
I remember the way her hand trembled...
as she pleaded me not to throw another punch, with her hands raised and shaking like those of a man's suffering from Parkinson's.
I remember the way her son watched.
His eyes growing tears,
only fifteen,
but his hands were stained by the blood of his mother
with his death like plea,
to let his mother flee,
because her breath was starting to grow thin.
I remember.
The way her olive skinned face felt pressed against my bullet proof shield
and how her gentle hands wrapped around my wrists,
hoping for me to feel the humanity slipping from her finger tips.
I remember how she never showed aggression.
How the only hand she raised before mine,
had *******,
reminding me why she was here.

A shining steampunk romance
Found at the end of the earth
Risen from ashes,
whilst a world falls to ruins
around them.
Yet reality is nothing to these girls.

A call to love in apocalypse
A sick smile pulls at her lips
Engulf in flames, my everything,
she says,
Because, ****, it'll be worth this last kiss.

This war rages like a great manic animal
Destruction every step of the way
On opposite sides,
they're to fight for their lives,
it's each to their self and their own.

"They're wrong."
"I know."
"They don't know what we have."

What they're missing is theirs,
a love rarely had.

We're over and we're done,
the world would say,
It's the end of the day.

"Not for us. Not even close."
She takes her hand. Turns her back on all she's lived.
"This, my dear,
This is where life begins."

The enlightened say
violence has no place,
But do they value it
anyway?

Mass hysteria
and this is how we rumble
in black clothes with
cops two streets over
ready to assassinate
US presidents and dissidents.
Ready for air.

Ready for takeoff,
the embrace of the long
arm of the law is a chokehold
is a racist institution and
here we are;
junkies, gamblers, jokers, monsters.
Funny thing, we went hunting for
people dressed as monsters
led by monsters disguised as humans.

Yeah, our geniuses die young and brutal.
Ours is the land of stray dogs,
cold rains and streets of garbage
[people included];
The stereotype is today.
The cliche is right now.

Stop before crossing the street,
look both ways for landmines,
my father on the battlefield
where this killing is justified,
from resident streets in ferguson
to gaza strip homicides,
My palms clasped tight in prayer,
from humanity's suicide