When times get
Hard, the going gets writing.
And the times are hard, but
Things get worst before they get any better.

As a bruise is when it's healing.

Coming from a young person with no where to go,
As I run from this creature.
This big, dark creature who's
Chasing me, there's no where to
Hide, or so it thinks...

Down the street...nope, it's right behind me.
On the roof...nah, it's there too.
No where to turn,
No where to go, oh but wait...
I* got my secret place, but d*amn it! It's
Even there as well--in my writing. *In my place.

Eyelids get heavy as i reload the messages for the thousandth time
When will i get that he doesn't feel like i do
hanging onto every word like a baby it's shoe
every few minutes falling needing to be picked up again
feeling as helpless and useless as without my pen
well maybe all is not lost
he never said it was
I shouldn't over think everything he does
trying to read the signs
when really i'm blind
without a clue how he feels
so i put on my heels
swap my jeans for a dress
and wait for someone to make me less
I am whatever they want because I amn't enough for him
Pathetically in my tears later I will swim.

You taught me why the sky is blue.
Darling I really amn't ready to fall for you..
Spectrums and colours,
I can only take so much.
Forbidden lovers, I've said enough.

A** love message in skin
Late night pillow talk
Extra cream your coffee
XIII days, years, century's could never be enough of what I want to spend with you.

Damn, you're amazing.
Always be the one for me.
Violently crush me with your lips
I'm so in love with you.
Dear alex

Ever thought you had friends you'd know until you die?
I did.
I wish with all my heart that a clock could be rewound,
revisit old mistakes, erase them and rewrite.
Life isn't like that.
Life is a ***** in heat scratching away at mental scabs.
"Friends are the family we choose ourselves"
*******.
It's a fridge magnet quote for a reason.
                        ~
Fickle, feckless,
Replaceable
Idiotic individuals
Endlessly
Needing a
Damn hard
Slap.
* Stepford friends*.

2 Dmn Pssed... 11/26/14

2 Dmn Pssed to read
2 Dmn Pssed to concentrate
2 Dmn Pssed to think

Education is a joke to them
Rules and respect
They have none

Women are for serving them
They are dumb
Thoughts...they have none.

Children are learning to
Disrespect me
Children have learned to
Ignore me.

I am just a babysitter maker.
I am just a babysitter.
I am just a stupid woman.
I am just another problem.

U never loved me.
U never knew,
U could be happy,
I loved you, too.

U never loved,
U never knew,
U never cared,
U're never true.

So many lies
That you have spun,
So many times
You think you've won.

Now I just play
Your little games,
Now I must tell
Your ***** lies.

Your family hates me,
My family hates you.
All I ever wanted
Was for you to be true.

Now I must keep
Your ***** lies,
Now I must be
A ***** spy.

So many secrets,
So little time,
But I don't think
I can drop the dime.

Copyright From A Poet's Heart

In a few days,
Months even,

Someday I'll forget you,
A** while it'll take,
Damn I miss you already.

SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.

no one ever arested gertuid stien
for being a language criminal
although she was arested once
for running out on a fast food bill
fast food was new then.
she mis-read fast for free.
tucked for tree
wound up in jail. true story
and im pretty sure also
she was sexless.
but fun at parties,
with that fat delirious
vocabulary
till you get her home.
if you know what i mean
one can only stand so much
and for it
get bit for ****,
finger for linger
mouth ecstatic
kiss on the lips
and goodnight
and ambiguous
for cun-a-linguest
if you know what i mean

city

a man died. and careful not to see
what watchers might-may be
he passed on something

liked, attitude

no, no small talk

i've been to a lot of funerals
who hasn't
it's serious business
this death. isn't it, and after?
used to scare the **** out of me.
wher's a relly good loosly tied oxford colon
when you need one.

never in
platitudes please
someone at least to drag me from the grave
did i mention i died
one to stand me up and say, "**** it boy,
stand up, grow back like a frog's limb
stand up in the pond
the premordial soup
and i'll do the rest".

never in attitude. make me a phrofit
change me. mind me, will and all

take care of me and never tell me i've died at all
ok i havn't then
just like that
you've conquered death

tell e things right
right in my ear like, "do it. it needs it.
you can do it and they too.

you're not for death.
you're not dying
but the m on your keyboard is weak

watch a dream of faith.
no simple home-spun wisdom this time.
the stuff of a amn who thinks he lives
but really it's angels, carrying him
to spare him the whole dream of dying
let alone death

to spare him the loss of the familiar
by providing the whole of life again
while ounting the iposible; soft cussion into
eternity, already there
entirely undeserved
watch: watch my ****. i'll be right back
just a minute.
only the kids understand
the fact is there is no ****
it's only the angels
helping me into eternity

let's turn these phrases once more
under the preasure of imagined life
and add just one whole city
a whole city watching one person's self
and property just to ease his way into eternity

because the concept
to anyone that eternity is forever and change
is frigtening to the sane,
and nonsense to the crazy
and arresting in it's starkness
so, let's, "spare" him
they say and devise a grand play
to prove life not to him, but themselves.
and when he leaves,
where are the artists?
in eternity
in ernist
watching


watch my ****
i'll be right back

O-nce there was a boy whose name meant 'servant of God'. Well, he grew up a good man gifted with hands that aren't half bad.

B-equeathed with palms that joyfully beat the Sabbath drums and fingers that write sensible poems, this lad surely knows how to touch souls.

E-nlightened, you may call him that, whenever he shares his insights on the Word of God. With his bashful demeanor who denounces the spotlight, it'll not occur to you he hides a hilarious side.

D-amn, this man is a gem! Almost lost him once but I won him again. Through bumpy rides and cold swims, I'm glad he's there, a buddy, a confidante, a friend.

SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.

how long has it been since you've been feeling lonely
probably a few days
probably since you were born
lonely or lonesome, i read once, both are very different,
i think i can't accept to be more than one, i create
the **** curve
not where it starts, that is the hand of God or maybe simply
the hands of others
but i make it end.

i need to leave before
you touch too close to home, before you see the cracks
in the ceiling - there's many, but the paint is fresh always
i am happy, i am so happy,
i feel so crushed,
they both overlap,
i need to be hidden away in a cave like a
dead something, maybe a rabbit, he got lost on the way
and the winter took him for himself,
i am the rabbit and the winter and the cave and
i am lonesome, as all three.

my body and my hands and my body again and my hands again
and the mess above them who tells them how to act and to feel,
they come back and hunt me always
in texts and dreams
i want my body to be
loved
i crave it so bad and it will never go
away, the craving, but
i'm so afraid of it
this body
why is it so weird
to be a body ?
if you touch me, if you
rub my back when it gets sore, if your hands are a bit
too kind to my skin,
i will crumble to pieces. one piece then
just pieces, now,
not like i am broken, i amn't
yet you could unmake me,
like a dream that's been alive for too long,
and suddenly the pieces of it disappear
why do they
disappear ?
because the dream was too slow ! it was too long to settle
like this body exactly
so long in the making, in the accepting too, in the lovin'
the dream furniture
becomes lands, becomes earth, the dream people's faces
change,
my body will also
morph
but can i.. can i like this dream
can i accept the dream body, the real piece of work body,
the me inside it,
to be loved ?
i don't really get it the loving part,

i'm good at it, the loving part.
i've been in love all my life
with things and words and dreams and the changes in people's
faces that i know by heart,
the way his smile gets pointy,
the way he runs to your room when he's happy, like
a child on christmas,
like,
a boy i'm in love with.
i want a body with you
isn't that so ******* scary ?
i want the ****
showers together, i want the kind hands, i want
the laughter in my neck,
all the ****** attention
i want it

i'm so lonesome
i would take it from anybody but i won't ! i won't
i dont want to feel like a liar, taking from
others who love
but i don't, i don't love you the same,
i don't understand your feelings so i assume and i say
"they're not the same, they're not"
and i leave ! i leave before i understand
because understanding is knowing,
knowing is acting
acting is so ******* tiring
i need you to
deattach your hands so they can be sewed right on mine,
i need you to
read every **** poem i made about you,
i need me to breathe, a lot

a whole storm
breathed.
i need air. i need to be alone, not lonesome ! not lonely !
alone
i need to
let you have all my love, and let you have all my loving,
and then i'll create one all for me
a good, tough, sweet love, a nice cocktail, sparkly
and young
all for me !
drank by my own **** body, even
held by
my own **** hands, even !
wants and needs and all this work i haven't done, and all
this amour propre
i'm forgetting.

i don't love myself.
someday,
i will.

SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.