I am one day older. July 17
My mother has another year
To her name. The sun has risen,
But time is setting – I am
Getting further away from the
Closest thing I had to bliss.

There is something beautiful
And desirable about ignorance,
Something I possessed only as an
Infant, yet I would ****
To hold it once more. **** –
That proves it. Just how far
Am I from those illusive years?

When I was little, nature's
Corpses would be buried with care,
And we would whisper words
To the Earth about who we had lost.
Now, pests are killed by my will,
And handled with disgust.

Yet, I envy them. Their lives,
So easy to dispose of, and mine,
Neverending. But I am the same
As a common moth.
Crush me.

You stole my breath
but needed only ask.
Gave love freely
and demanded the same back.
You took no ****
so never gave one.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
to feel no regret.

You were bold and brazen,
I was empathetically italicized,
leaning on you
in times of duress.
You gave and gave and gave and gave and gave
two-bit trinkets
half-assed like alimony.
I took and took and took until
I was overburdened and
rooted in place.
You walked away like an action hero
and never looked back.
You showed me the way
- my eyes followed you -
straight out the window.

Yesterday you gave
     me a call. Said
     you were fine.
I didn't ask
     if you felt my eyes
     searching you out
     in dreams,
digging deeper through memories
to us, together.
You teaching me to love
     selfishly,
showing me the way you did.
My eyes followed you,
  followed yours
     following her,
and you showed me the way
you felt no regrets.

Perhaps sometime I can show you
how I find my way
straight out the window
and let your eyes follow me
down.

We were all sitting here alone
spiking our breakfast cereal
monochrome and melancholy
unique like bad grammar
we stammer and stumble
through thoughts sepia
and savor each sip
from bourbon laced Special K
our amber memories matching
the luxurious proof that we need
each other like broken toes
need designer moccasins
more or less useless in stupors
suave though still
as captains Morgan and Crunch
sail the high seas of our internal struggle
and pitch with unspoken conversation starters
and serene belief that the storm over head
is just a migraine like any other
meanwhile we sing seaworthy refrains of how
Honey Jack and Cheerios were made for each other
sending our feelings down to Davey Jones' deep

We wake to skies of groggy grey
and struggle to wipe the night from our eyes.
Rain pelts the windowpane as I burrow into you
and ask with a tongue still warped by dreams
if we can stay in today and sleep off the world like a bad hangover.

We could turn the bed into a boat
and use the day to travel the seven seas.
Our pillows could be rocket thrusters on a spaceship
trailing asteroids through the cosmic void.
We could go spelunking under the comforter
and scale mountains with the sheets.

I could try to convince you it’s just the weather,
but the truth is I just want more of you – all of you.
I want every adventure from our bed
to a jungle, to a mountain range,
to trips to the grocery store and
making pancakes in our pajamas.

So let’s sleep late and lazy and
make our bodies into puzzle pieces
because today, rain or shine, we’re playing hookey.

"I'm a serial killer" Sarah remarked walking away from Jade.
"I'm dazed and confused, for how are you something so horrid?" Jade exclaimed, Sarah turned back.
"I ****** person after person" Sarah laughed, emotionless.
"HOW COULD YOU!?" Her sister Jade cried out.
"I shed blood" Sarah's eyes grew darker.
Jade paused and drew in a deep breath.
"You're a murderer?" Jade said hesitantly.
"My soul is darker than hell" Sarah grimaced.
"First degree ****** is horrible!" Jade cried and fell to her knee's in disbelief that her sister was a cold-blooded murderer.
"I'm a demon walking" Sarah said interrupting Jade's thoughts.
"No!" Jade said in denial.
Sarah pulled out a knife and stabbed Jade 17 times. She stood up and laughed.
Sarah licked the blood of the blade and walked away.
Sarah left Jade laying in the grass lifeless and mutilated.
That is a serial killers destiny.

What could be more simple
Than to write a poem about a daisy?
Petals,  pristine white
Surrounding  a heart of egg yoke gold
Proudly her head rears to the sky
Attracting bees and butterflies
No pretentious well shapes forms
But one of the oldest flowers known by man
Look, yes look at that simplicity of form
Un biased, un altered by the interference of man

Just a simple daisy

It comes without warning;
you can't choose whether
or not it happens to you.
It's a calling.
The act of someone needing you,
not someone else,
but you.
You are the hero they need
to save them,
before there's nothing left to save.
You stay up late trying to find ways to become this hero.
You and the caller talk as long as the caller wants.
While this might not be the ideal situation for the hero,
they do it anyways in order
to make sure the caller doesn't end.
The hero swoops in at every situation they can,
trying to convince the caller;
trying to say how much they're needed.
Many times,
they succeed.
The caller decides they want to see another day.
They want to stay strong.
That gives the hero relief,
and only pushes them to try harder.
But,
there always seems to be one final time
when the hero's too late.
This is the time where it's not only the caller's end,
but the hero's, too.
The hero hits zero;
the hero doesn't want to continue
when they know how they
could've prevented this.
And that's when the cycle restarts-
the only difference being the hero
is now the caller.
The new hero,
on the other hand,
unknowingly waits for the call;
the call that could save a hero's life.

My brother's somewhere hiding,
first comes counting, then comes finding
but this child that I am minding
my last nerve he's tightly winding

Mum and Dad have gone out dining
on their date night, romance shining
while the little brat is whining
hidden in the curtain lining

So I'll get on with my writing
cause it must be more exciting
to be sat here with my rhyming
as my skills they need refining.

Now the little ork is pining
still not found, my name he's crying
eyes accusing me of lying....
Is a pinky promise binding?