Holidays have always been a tricky thing for me.

On Father's Day I stole my father's vicodin.
On Easter I got black out drunk.
On my sister's third birthday I smoked Salvia.
On Christmas I stole my Aunt's brandy.
On New Years I stayed home alone and smoked cigarettes 5 hours into the new year.
On St. Patrick's day I saw a lot of green. And smoked a lot of green as it happened.
On the first day of summer I was in summer school.
On the first day of school I ditched.
On Valentines Day I bought myself chocolate and cried.
On Halloween I dressed up as myself and got my stomach pumped.
On my birthday I stayed home from school sick and watched TV all day.

But on the day I first spoke with her I was in a black box.

Welcome to AMERICA
The sweet land of DREAMS...
The only comparison I see...
In either, nothing ever is as it seems

It's the "Freedoms and Liberties"
That attracts people from all different places
"Equal Opportunity" is what our country sells
And for all creeds and races

A Melting ***, Yes
With this I absolutely agree
But I certainly wouldn't call it
"The Land Of The Free"
REALLY?
You've got to be kidding me

There may be no shackles
No slavery here
But we're all puppets to government
And the laws they declare

Illusions of Liberty, Justice for all
Distract it's evil soaked core
It's slowly destroying our existence
Until nothing left is pure

And as much as I hate it
It really doesn't matter that I see
It remains out of my control
They've still made a puppet out of me

Pulling the strings on my arms
I'm forced to obey
And this will probably continue
Despite anything I say

But since I HAVE to say it anyway
I've altered this strategy a bit
I'll direct my attention toward "The People"
And encourage them to fight it
We may be too weak all alone
But if we all stood up as one
We could start the war to fight against
What this nation has become
If we all stood together
To declare that we'll fight if we must
To expose the truth and corruption
In this sweet land of the unjust

TO BE CONTINUED....

They live in huge houses, drive fancy cars
Most know poverty only secondhand
So how can they fix a problem... They don't really understand

Given the role of a leader
However, I'm convinced they are confused
We live in worlds too far apart...
How can they lead with similar views

Their children go to private schools
Only the finest and elite
Their children will never need public education
So they allow funding to deplete
Their children will succeed
I believe it's part of their plan
To ensure that high society
Will forever lead the average man

The evidence is no secret
They don't seem to care if we agree
They know they hold this power
So it doesn't matter if we see

Our taxes keep going up
Unemployment is at an all time high
Life keeps getting harder for those just scrapping by
The people making these decisions
Of course they find it easy enough to do
They're not deciding for themselves
They decide for me and you

The truth of the matter is...
This country is ruled by hypocrisy
They disguise this, however, very cleverly
Today it's what we know as Democracy

"A political government run by 'The People' through 'Selected' officials"... Democracy defined
Compare it to the way it was truly designed

Sure we get to 'select the official'
But the one thing they seem to neglect
They pick the people
Many, that corruptive politics help select

Hi, its me,
I’m loosing my mind.
Say nothing, say something, nothing.
I’m  a ****** everything to have,
For days, weeks, months, of life.
Nothing makes a difference,
No one changes.
I’m Tired, scared, lonely.
In a room full of people,
Panic consumes me.
Its dark, and cold and grey.
Its life.
Hi, its me.

Martini glasses chime with floating olives,
Cocktail dressed, and music playing,
Clamoring voices and velvet hands.
Will I measure my life in coffee spoons? -
Or plastic sticks where olives used to be.
Salty sweet like the sweat of angels,
You hand me my drink,
Electricity passes through your fingertips.
I am shocked.
You sweep me into your arms,
We glide over the floor,
The rock songs play but we waltz.
“Take your time, Love”
I tell you but you never listen.
Will you ever learn,
Or will I?
We do this dance around
All the questions we will ignore,
Just for one more moment.
One more dance.
Just one.
The martini glasses clank.
Cheers to the moment,
It hangs in the air,
Wafting, dispersing, infecting our clothes,
it lingers.

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
It looks you square in the eyes, smiling
It asks you to write alone
Even in company
When writing poetry
You are alone

And even lonelier still
It asks you
To go inside of yourself
There are things there you must find

There is a man inside my body
A boy
And they look just like me
They each hold letters
I do not know what they say
I must find them

Poetry is love you want
Is someone you want to be in love with
Poetry is a child tugging at the pant-leg of someone
You want to be in love with

Poetry is the coffee stain on long sleeve shirts
Right over the wrist
Your mother called them chocolate stains
Never blood

Poetry is my drunk fingertip stumble
My white-boy wasted
My way of loving less awkward

Poetry is someone telling you they love your poetry
Poetry is loving someone for loving your poetry
Poetry is also kissing that person

There is a man
In mirrors he might be me
We have a letter we want to give to you
But they read like a feeling

We spend hours in solitude
Finding ways to step into the daylight

Poetry is convincing you
You need a reason to step into the daylight

There are words etched into your teeth
All white
No bling
The letters change with the shape of your mouth

Smile more often
Even when you don’t want to

Poetry is trying to teach you to speak peace
with the words in your smile
To people you don’t want to speak peace to

Poetry is an angry father
Is neck bruises from belt loops
Is rug-burn from being dragged across the floor

Poetry does not love you
It simply asks you
To find space inside of yourself
And then it wants you to give it to someone else

There are people inside of you
With stories

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
Giving it away
Until no one can be a thief to your soul

That too
Is poetry