I find it hard to write about one single thing when there are so many thoughts in your head.
I find it hard to sleep when all you can think about is your future and what you'll do for the rest of your life.
I find it hard to do homework when all you can hear are the screams coming from your parents bedroom door.
I find it hard to let things go when you've never gotten an apology.
I find it hard to think when anxiety is the only thing keeping you company.
I find it hard to be happy when everything around you is just so sad.

God was tired that day
After all
Six days shalt thou labour
And on the seventh
Shalt thou rest
And he'd be slaving away
For eighteen days nonstop
Mainly because of the offer of
Double overtime
Had proven irresistible.

He'd written out these great rules
On how to live,
All eleven of them.
And God yelled out:
"Oy Moses, you fat bearded ***,
I got some tablets of stone for you
So move your ******* kosher ****".

And Moses came out of the pub
And picked up the first ten
But, being a bit the worse for wear,
And nine sheets to the wind
With cut-price passover wine,
He never noticed the eleventh one:
"Never accept a personal cheque
Without a bank guarantee card"
Is what it said,
And you can't argue with that
No ******* way.

He played that guitar
like cupid on a broken heart
or a harmony upon a harp.

The sad instrument wept
his tears unto the dry crowd
and they sighed in saturation.

And once he was drained
of everything he kept contained
they lit their lighters, begging for more.

Alas, he was alive no longer,
and had nothing but great nothings
left to give them.

So they took the silence,
and gave it back to him.

Even Icarus knew this:
To kiss the sky was not enough
With lips like feathered wings
Smeared with wax
I will fly and fall
Over and over
Just to hover across
Your mouth like the sun

To our eyes ,                                                                                                              That is ,                                                                                                                      What we are able to see                                                                                           Is called that endless horizon ...                                                                               One's horizon is what one is                                                                                    Able to see or to think ...                                                                                          Everyone and everything have                                                                               Their own horizons,so                                                                                              What's your horizon's limit in life ?

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.