Silence-
Silence-
Whisper if you cannot hold it back-
Silence-
Trifling lies, rustle when that gate opens wide-
Winds blow as the windows stand agape-

My eyes drifting, floating-
Away-

Silence-
Peace to you who find it.
Don't let those voices hide it.
Don't let them drown inside it-
Don't let- those poems - awake-
Sleep-
Let it be-

Dear God...
It's been a long road of depression and weeping,
And I don't know how many tears I can keep seeing
Until those last pieces of my shattered heart
Crumble to my creeping floors!

These floors are mopped with salt!
I have shined these floors with the blood seeping from my eyes!
I can't take another person telling me that they've thought of suicide!
I've tried to sound like I've enjoyed all my pain!
But God you and I both know that I hate it!
I hate it so much God!
And I've been grieving for so long God!

My pen can only take so much black ink
Before it explodes in my pocket and ruins everything.
My mind can only take so many words
Before I've wept until my head hurts!
God I can only take so many stories
Before I myself have become their mourning!

My dear friends...
My heart breaks to know that you have thought about the end.
We were never created to hate ourselves so much that we shatter glass
And open up yellow bottles  to try and push our life back.

If you can't find another reason to live for, just live for me.
Because I still do nothing but scream
Until God hears everything!
I will not stop praying until I see you free!
Because you are still my family!
And I will fight
Until you see the light,
Because I know that you can still be alive!

Well I'm honestly not much different from you.
What makes my words more intellectual or imaginative than yours?
I guess I'm too selfish to admit
That I still don't know exactly what poetry is
Or how God intended it.
I like to think he created poems to show us his beauty
In all things, even the dark.
I guess I've done a bad job as a poet
If I am still in love with God, and no one knows it.

Correct me if you care,
But honestly who are you, and tell me, is it fair
For you to tell me
That you know the meaning of poetry?

I sit here and stare hard at the words that I've scribbled so forcefully
And the smears of the ink all over my hands.
What is the meaning of these meaningless struggles
To empty my mind of all these hateful words?
Maybe I just needed someone to blame
For all these years of anguish and frustration.

The grass is still growing,
It's cold in southern Florida,
Yet I'm still bitter.
The flowers are blooming again
And the whistle of the breeze
Is resounding throughout the hallways of my ear canals,
And the sweetest tune you could ever imagine
Is caressing all my aching muscles.
Yet still, I write things about how my life is in shambles.

If this could be the last poem I'd ever write,
I would praise God for allowing my last words to those reading
Be about how the figment of hatred that we've masked around our faces
Is nothing but wrapping paper with black paint
Covering that sweet gift of peace.
My last words to you are that I'm not wise,
I'm not as great as I think I am,
And I honestly am in love with this wonderful life God gave me,
And the peace he brings me everyday.

We are the stories of the dark and obscene!
"Hello I'm a poet, and I'm here with a dream!"
Well aren't we all just some conjured up mess of contortions!
We all want to be the super hero's for the lost and the orphans,
But we draw our endorphins from our pain, it's our portion,
And we'll publicly portray all our poorly painted portraits.

Dear writers,
I hear a lot about your cravings for emotion,
But not a lot of wisdom.
In fact, I hear a lot that that's all that you want back,
Because apparently it seems to me that you think emotion is what you don't have.

We all think we're great philosophers with great philosophical functions!
We all think that our words are more than our biased made assumptions!
Well let me be the first to say that poetry is for nothing.

You're not a poet until you go to bed at night dreaming you never wrote it!
Poetry! I wish I never got to know it!
It's the only thing still dragging me down to hell!
It's the only thing that keeps me locked in a rusty cell!
Dementia has become euphoric to me, and I still don't know why!
All I know is I've tried to **** my poetry, but it still will never die!

Dear Benny,
I know I left when you were just a small boy
As you watched my ship sail off the shore.
I know I left you and said that I loved you
And I kissed your head as you slept the night before,
But all I can recall is the sad look on your face
As I left without a trace!
I could've sworn I saw the frown in your cheeks
As I packed my bags to leave!
Son, I dream of the days when my apologies would mean something
And you could find the heart to forget someone who never had one!

Well son, your daddy was a pirate!
I left long ago so I could find some island
That we all believed to be out there!
But son I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere!
It's the thoughts of what you look like now,
How you've grown and how your little voice sounds,
That haunt my deepest thoughts and my deepest sorrows!
I just want to hold you in my arms tomorrow!

Oh these waves just rock my heart in circles
Like I used to lull you to sleep as the sun sets!
I wish I never left!
I wish I never left!
My heart's still stained with all my regret!
Just remember that when you grow old and start your life
To never live it the way I lived mine!

I heard you're quite the sailor, son,
And I hear you smile just like your mother.
I hear that mom found another man,
And now you have another brother.
Why won't these chests of gold and bottles of ***
Fill this gaping hole inside my black heart!
All I have left is the bitter taste!
All I have left is the bitter taste!
Alcohol makes it all seem great,
But, Benny, it's brought me to these final days!
Find yourself a wife and kiss your son goodnight!
Because sometimes I dream of the days when I'll die!
And to be honest it's starting to feel good.

Dear Poets,
We are a wondering bunch of know it-
All's.
We breathe words and phrases
From our upright noses.
No one composes
A song that shows us
Or proposes
That we change the things we've chosen!
We love they way we live,
And we love the blood that pours from our fingertips
On to white paper.

What a hypocritical bunch are we,
Writing about death and life
As if we knew the answers to everything.