I don't know
who I am now
But I enjoy this unknown path
I was all nice and simple before
Everybody hates it when
I say it as it is
I was digging myself a deep hole
by faking a smile with torn lips
I don't think that I am rude
I just have a bad ****** expression
Especially when one hides a devil
inside and act all pure
outside the box
I have to take care of what
I value most
But what is real won't be shaken
No matter how strong the cyclone is
I always change my story
Because there are good predictors
out there
Ready to find a weakness and destroy
with great profession

●○Buven ThePoet●○

Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.

I don’t know what is in my head, but there are pictures whirling, images dragged up from far away, from places I have never been, and darkness that presses in hungrily to consume the soul of all humanity.
In me there is a foothold. God! In even me a grasping hand able to wield the knife and divide my soul from itself and laugh. To dance around the fire wherein the bones of my victims burn. God, the horror! Flitting shadows, creeping faces, a shuddering crawl because I cannot run.
But of course, if my legs are cut how could I run. There is no hope, but blood and death and horror and laughing faces asking for new dissections.
My body a cocoon of fire around my heart, pulsing out in the open, literally. My chest is torn open, carefully peeled back and my body a spectacle. There is no redemption in this grotesquery. This madness filled with the devils of hell themselves. They gloat over me, reeling drunk upon my destruction and the utter shriveling of the souls who dance around me. I am fighting my own demons not to burst into a million tiny seconds of my life, like shards of glass shatter under too much pressure, a flitting signal in the night like a light snuffed out by wolves. Slavering jowls, moist breath pressed unwilling against cold flesh, and a knife’s blade sliding, gliding through the pathways of my life’s story. Veins emptied of their proper element. Pried open.
"Lay them bear!
Let us see the very soul of you - the inside of those veins. Let us dare to go where no man has ever gone before. To do what no man has ever dared to do. To brave the depths of hell for the satisfaction of knowing that at last we have done something new, something that no one will ever have the bravery, the courage, and dastardly faith to do in a hundred years."
No god was there in that room, only the screaming devils of hell in all the world about us, laughing, laughing at the misery we make for ourselves, the utter torment into which we flee to tear our own souls apart beyond the light of day. There is nothing that we can do to stop them. They are all around us in the night, and in the shadows they are lurking, creeping, whispering. Let them come into your soul, they only want to play a little, gleefully singing the songs of the ******. They are not the ones you have to fear. It is the old devils, the ones who are still insatiably hungry, that you have to worry about. They say they're just here to have fun. But, oh you poor deluded soul, don't you know the fun they call is ******? The messengers they are is death’s own hand, the scythe-wielding master of the times of tombs and all things. By the way, its midnight. Don’t you see the clock? You hear the ticking. They are coming closer, ever closer. Don’t deny it. You know that they are here, it’s true, it’s true. You felt their breath late at night breathing down the back of your neck’s soul.

Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.

There, beneath the ice.
Frozen.
An unready meal, unfit for consumption.
A drowning dalek, malfunctioned.
All intellect, no gumption.

There, amongst the trees.
Falling.  
Too eager to please,
all smiles and bended knees,
platitudes float by on breeze.

There, left in the rain.
Forgotten.
Torn head stitched back again -
a pale plaster-cast of pain.
Her mask descending down the drain.  

There, amid the crowd.
Brazen.
Talking painfully too loud,
arrogance veils like a shroud,
inside, her head stays bowed.

There, across the street.
Timid.
Hoping that we meet,
shuffling feet on summer heat,
Her broken heart won't beat.

Here, an open road.
Curious.
A rerun or new episode?
Traffic slowed,
this time, we go.

Did you tell her about
The edge of the Universe,
Where the stars don't blink,
And you bathe in a sea of your sins,

The colors spoke to you,
In poetry and lies,
Desaturate your mind,
And step in through the blinds.

Is there anybody on this frequency
Listening to this voiceless prayer?
I want to go from here.

Painless offering of winged snakes,
Take flight down a road,
Where blind men see,
And snakes talk in ancient tongues.
Buses blue and yellow,
Take you to the playground
Where the pilgrims disappeared in holy smoke.
Black holes greet you with open arms,
Into the war-torn fields of red,
So beautiful, so ******, so red.
Staring at your defenseless eyes,
Headless hunters, brainless,
Seek you to join them.
Desert child,
Did the sun blind you?
Did the heat seep in through your skin
And burn you inside?
You've been digging at the wrong end,
The light will blind you,
Misguide you,
The exit is to the west.
Hurry.
There's a storm coming.
Get out !

Lust is a feeling that we all endure,
pain is a suffering which cannot be ignored,
lift the weight off your shoulders and lay down your strife,
I will listen to you.

My child, put down that knife,
hear my words of wisdom profound,
your body is a temple and will not be torn,
Lay down your life, place it on the ground

For love is not a sin,
and I will pour mine onto you,
my healing salve which utters lyrics,
of sweetest songs on innocent tongues,

you are forgiven of life's mysteries,
For my son gave his life,
fathomed by cruelty,
you are to be helped through the strife,

Poetic words form a helpless beauty,
for which your song must die,
I will give you a new song forever sung,
poured down on you from the sky,

Listen my child and do not boast,
of this love for which I promise,
I cannot tell if you love me most,
or your prized possession, be honest.

Despite your flaws my child I love,
to sing over you each night as you sleep,
My child, put down that knife,
for by my love you must keep.

Droplets of blood form crimson waves,
as you forget to listen for my voice,
but, I will caress your wounds
my child, you have a simple choice

Love yourself as I have loved,
as difficult as it may seem,
and I will reward you with treasures of heaven
at my right hand your made clean.

A Love so infinite and pure,
is the one I wish to give,
my child please don't ignore,
or you will slip through my fingers like a sieve.

It's like I've written volumes of reasonable responses,
But burnt the pages in the furnace of my lonely subconscious.

Being hardly conscious of what defines responsible,
I'm slacking, toying with a recent lacking sense of passion.
Another constable and I'm basket-cased,
Basking in darker masks,
because I've abandoned the single greatest answer to my asking.

There's a fine line between an open mind and empty head.
There's a long bridge between actions being taken rather than words just being said.
I'm quite the sweet talker,
Candy words from a bitter tongue tied to a head filled with resentment and a body that carries rotting lungs.
I'm quite the mediator, I can lie and you'll love me for it, but I'm sure you know the rest,
I mean, you've gambled your heart for it,
Always reading the wrong words from the right lips.

I'll have you know I'm fully aware of the damage I cause, and full of sorrow over the time you've lost.
I've done what I can,
And what I couldn't do,
I tried,
I've changed what I can,
And when I couldn't,
I would lie.

Yet you would lie there with me,
Hoping for the best when the truth is we both know in reality this is all that there is.
This is all that there ever was, yet God thought it'd be funny to play a joke instead.

This is no laughing matter, I mean look at what's come from it;
Empty cabinets, soiled carpet, and a part of me that's dead.

All the patrons called and the tablecloths gone cause of the nosebleed stains of the house favorites flaws,
The demons that I seek met the skeletons I keep to pay the rent to all the scars I let them crash inside for weeks.
And boy, are they deep.
The scars, the demons, the skeletons in my closet.
And it bleeds through me-
And it bleeds.

From blue collars in Bangkok looking to keep up,
To college dollars wasted looking for a new rush.
It's incredible, absolutely, that everything went to hell over false power;
It's a tragedy, but nothing new that it all drowned due to fine powder.

So many will claim me,
But there is no home I know.
You'll try to save me,
But out the gates I'll go.
The best way to complicate is to simply not decide;
The only way I can compensate is to burn myself alive.

It's my two cents that I'm at a loss of sentience,
And I can't feel to the touch.
Regardless of if it makes much sense;
I'm not empathic anymore.
I have a lack of emotion.
I'm morally bankrupt,
And right down to the bone marrow-
I can't feel to love.

Can I show you my scars?
May I expose what it is that has torn me apart?
We can both serve as surgeons;
Sewing slits in the uniform that once resembled skin.

Sad chords and body sores reveal false power and faint accord.
I need them both but highs nor lows are something I can afford.

Syria
Crying
Agonizing
Relentless
Torture
Your body torn
Shredded
Cancer
Consuming
And the cause?
Uncaring Viruses
Corrupting
Your teachings
Subjecting you to
Insurmountable
Pain
Misery
I'm so sorry

JM 3/30/17

Tick tok tickles the clock
Cricket sound was reverberating in my mind
I can feel my soul being soaked
In my own sweat
This gives me such collywobbles
Im still putting my feelings into words
Yet Im torn between sending or keeping it
What will I do?
"****, Im gonna send this",
I finally utter.
"I have a deep regard for you."
Sent 11:48pm
I broke into tears because of this nervousness in me.
I let a deep sigh out.
Seen 11:50pm was all I can see on the screen
No typing.
No reply.
Nothing.

Your love was dangerous.
Like the beauty of a siren,
it drew me in.

It numbed the mind like a drug,
While my body was torn apart,
Mutilation. Devastation.
my last sight.

A glint of steel,
the subtle blade of your love,
piercing my heart.
No care. No mercy.

The mistress of broken minds,
bringer of such sweet demise,
I Have A Message For You!
the fruits of your sins await.

I have no more fear of this angel,
as i wait in some circle of hell,
for her arrival.

I bide my time in Elysium,
waiting for her flesh,
my sweet release,
vengeance for an eternity of suffering.

But until that day I wait,
Charred. Scarred.
for her requiem.

Oh how I shall Dance.

Naw motha fkka I
Ain't hot ****
Ain't pompous
Knock nitty gritty
With ****** up kids
I got uh
E mergency
Kit put together
With pipe and tape
From the basement
You need gum
Paperclips
Got a leak
Motha fkkn leaking
Unstable, collect
N assemble new
You wit half ya
Bodyweight in staples
BMI justified
With baggage n
Fix its
It's only a problem
When ya round
Motha fkka I
Ain't hot ****
But I'm one
Of the most torn
Up turned up
******* in the pound
Bombastic sensations
Comin from all sides
A ******
No hater
Trouble you
Trouble me
What's it gonna be?
Depends on your visage
****, I could turn it off
N I do do on occasion
If ya kickin without
The free body vibes
I visit, permission
Can't be a thing
I do wut I want when
I do cause I trust me
You r basic n
Chastened n rope
N chains to the brain
Stuck on level
Seth ***** said
In time you lay stone
Work hurt sometimes
You must crumble
Breakin down
The mortar with
Nightshade in
Spray as pesticide
For the vines tangling
Strangling your
Home, it's unknown
If I gonna grow in
The right way but
I trust me so if
I'm so grown I outgrow
Then I gotta go
No hate

The rain stings your face
as you scream into the night
hands held up, you fall to your knees
break free girl, of these chains so tight.

Death holds you by the throat
pins you down and bullies you
all you need, is scarlet grace
from the tree of Golgotha, to renew.

To save you, he was speared
As thorns bore into his skull torn
he chose to go to hell for you
than remain without you in heaven.

Light pours from his bleeding scars
joy and happiness to fill you now
this is all he ever knew
to save, forgive and love you.

So have hope, keep believing
you are everything to him.

Well...
What a surprise...
Still sat here, with shatterd lines...

If only...
When I awoke...
The world could just explode...
Leave me to feel free, for once in my life...

No incandesent feeling, remose or smile...
As you all tell me how hard your lifes are, I squwerm with anguish.
I cry out "******* let me get on with it."

I will not be still...
I will not take shelter...
Because lifes to short, helterscelter...
Friends are needed...
Laughs requierd...

For heavens sake just retire...
So the young can improve, grow and aspire..


You who hold us down, saying "Your hopless go smoke some thing."

Is that what you desire...
Because when your old torn and tattard,
It will be me feeding you,
washing you down.
For this is the eighth time you have soild yourself today...
No more. No more...
NO MORE

For tomorrow is another day,
for you to point the finger and say

Your useless and ******,
go back to robbing homes
And leave these jobs to the bracket Grown'ups close bracket...

I whisper words I know won't be heard
I say them, softer than a fluttering bird.
Quiet, I am, for I know those in need
will refuse, every time, to take heed.

I'll make my speech grand when the time comes;
for now this will only reach a small, select some.
My heart keeps jumping at every sound;
for I wish one day I could simply be found.

Take this ripped heart and hold it close
I doubt it will warm to you; it no longer does for most.
My eyes will stay shut more times than not;
One day I will be lucky to see you caught.

I miss my life the way it was; when all
revolved around one single nightly call.
Now I see how others shape my world
and not every day needs to be spent curled

in a figure unnatural to your form.
I will still swear that my heart is torn.
More than I ever thought before
doubt is wearing my mind like at a seashore.

Let me not be the warhorse to this myth called love
That the wisest of men shall bow before me
Erewhile, that warm light, hid in the clouds above;
Its grim shadows casting my uncertainty

From the chambers of scorn, locked on my own;
Thou drewest near like a wildflower, setting me free
O my torn heart restored, thou hast carefully sewn
Thou art my rescue; and thy smile, the key

Unto every one that hath felt this enchantment,
Whose power turns timid souls into beasts
If this be fate’s scheme, or divine entrapment
In the court of doubts, I testify to its fulfillment

Cometh my love, and delve into thine own heart
I am but a humble man, if I may ask of thee
My beloved, canst thou be with me forever?
Yonder, not far from here, lies our happily ever after

So, how do you know?
How do you go about...?
How do you prevent a broken heart?
En las horas de soledad, sometimes you think you will never find someone like the one you just left...
and then, time goes on, because time heals those scars that are deep inside your soul.

Then, you swear it will never happen again,
and you build an armor
and have all this plan all this new tactics,
you will not fall again!
yet in seconds just with one smile
yes one stupid smile you fall all over again...
and you are vulnerable again
then you stand up asking why? How could this have happened to me again?...
now you have to wait again ...
but how do you know? how do you go about?

And  it is kind of funny that those memories were the best you had,
but it is kind of sad when you are torn down apart inside your heart.
How do you know? How do you go about?

Things get spoken, things get broken but
how do know? How do you go about from preventing a broken heart?
There is nothing better than a sweet smile and a warm kiss.
There is nothing better than looking in that person's eyes and the world stops turning...
but when all that magic is gone and you are back in reality .
How do you know? How do you go about?

How do you explain that to a young heart who has had their first kiss and first heartbreak?
How do say to an older heart who is is giving up who again lost someone he/she never really had?
Is it just the way it goes? falling and falling again until you find the one?

Tennyson once wrote "Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all." but is it really true?
Could it be just an excuse to justify it to your broken heart?
I imagine it would apply when you have lost someone through death and you have love the one.

I am torn

between cookies and cream

or raisin and ***

   you have plumped
   for a vivid blue creation

it’s bubblegum
   you say

as it begins to
drip

   down your fingers

and I’m dawdling

so it’s raisin and *** then

two magnolia spheres
   glittering in the sun

and we walk down the street

with cold tongues

12 a number of deep scars on her skin
12 times she gave up
12 moments she found herself holding the blade in her hands
1 attempt to end it all like a game
2 blades she took care of as if they were her life
Oh, but they were her life

12 cuts that remain a memory on her skin
12 years of age and feeling like a lost fisherman at sea
3 years old and she already lost sense of a normal childhood
Her world the one full of stars shattered right before her eyes
Going to a place she called home but wasn’t a home
Going to a place she was filled with fear
Fear caused by a pair of hands she thought were to protect and not hurt

She didn’t want to be in fear
She wanted her end to be near
By 4 years old she was independent like a 11 year old
Showering and dressing herself before mother could see how ***** and used she actually was
Bruised up, used up, torn, broken
So that blade was her golden token

12 goals and dreams she gave up on
12 times father promised he wouldn’t hurt mother anymore
12 times she was told to let herself be touched because no one would love her either way
12 times her brother said “don’t tell mom”
1 time she made her little sister a promise to not let brother hurt her ever again
1 time breaking that promise led to losing her little sister

Bruised up, used up, torn… broken
With a golden token
She found a way out after 11 years
She spread her broken wings and emerged out of darkness

Situation of inflation.
Betrayal saturates your current fate.
Destiny can no longer wait.
Your enemies deceive & hate.

Objectify a small white lie.
An unanswered why.

People & things fall apart.
Torn in half & broken hearts.

Salvage pieces to make it whole.
Satisfaction in a cereal bowl.

Truth unbelieved.
People you can't be with you leave.

You don't know what it is to break
You think that I am made of stone
My home is what you chose to take
Reducing me to skin and bone
My poor child, rich in tears
I am the monster behind your pain
You do not count your golden years
As black and white fortifies your cane
You know nothing of what is true
Nothing of hunger, or rattling breath
Of sidewalk beds and bruises blue
The trembling that induces death
You do not weigh 110 pounds
You have never known fragility
You cannot hear those awful sounds
The silent anguish of instability
Have you ever been forced into the dark?
By hands larger than your waist
It's just a stroll into the park...
Until its blood and torn lace
This is why I must come back
To the home you took away
So doctors can silence each attack
Though who would listen, I cannot say
Ice or stone, whatever I may be
I am broken - there is no me

The minds of man are turning,
always yearning for more.

Heads are always rolling,
demanding perfection or else.

What constitutes that I'm another bill?
I think I mean more than you think I do.

Raise your fist to have it torn back down.
You have to stand your ground.

Put our nose to the grindstone,
only to lose our pay.

Men sit around, don't get their hands *****,
but think they have the right to take it away.

See the dollar signs in their eyes.
Money running through their veins.

We're just slaves for the industry.
We're stuck in the maze.

Everything is made of gold,
all they want is more.

We're just another bill,
they slip in their back pocket.

Late one evening on a stroll
I was feeling mighty droll
I came to the big open meadow
And decided to sit down and mellow

There was nothing but grass for miles to see
Nothing at all but this one tiny bee
He looked in a great hurry
He's wing's buzzed with a mighty flurry

So me being me
I decided to fallow and see
He ziged and he zaged
I tried hard not to lag
At the top of a small hill crest
Is when I seen all the rest

On one side the bees, the other side the butterflies
And right in the middle their prize

It was the only one left
Frost had taken all the rest
It was tattered and torn
But it's beauty none could scorn
For it had stood times test
It had been stronger than the rest

It had been pearly white
Such a beautifully gourges sight
Now a dingy gray
It's nectar still as sweet as that very first day

And that's what started the war
That one little flower is what they where all here for
The big strong bees
Thought they could bring the butterflies to their knees
The fragile brightly painted butterflies
Behind their backs had a big surprise

The bees flew in first, stingers at the ready
Their stingers polished and sharp, flight was steady
The butterflies spread wide their colored wings
Hiding behind them their evil means

The first bee to the flower was shot down
I watched it spiral and hit the ground
That was it, all out war
All those flying fighting insects shook me the core

The bees had brought knifes to the butterflies gun battle
All I could hear was buzzing and tiny gun fire crackle
The air was a sea of colorful wings
And the yellow and black with the wings that sings

The bees were out powered
With the guns the butterflies advanced on the flower
The bodies of bees soon littered the ground
And when it was all over, it was sad what was found

The poor flower had been beaten down
It was laying with the dead bees on the ground
The butterflies realized the war had been for naught
For neither side would get what they want

But the butterflies had tasted power
They forgot about that little flower
So if in your town the bees are despairing
Then know the butterfly revolution is nearing

I hold you in my arms, your frail
frame twitching and turning in pain.
Open cuts consume your body,
like a can of paint thrown against
an empty canvas. The once smooth
surface of your form is now torn
and bloodied. Tears roll from your eyes,
shimmering as the salt burns deeper into your flesh.
All I can do is take your tiny paw in my hand,
and wait for the pain to pass.

I remember when I got you. My first
day on my own, I stopped by Sam’s
house before I left. He brought you out,
wrapped in a little red and white blanket,
and handed you to me. Young and scared,
you mirrored all of my insecurities. He
told me to take you, so neither of us
would have to be alone.

Do you remember our time in the mountains,
when night would come and the
temperature dropped like an over-ripened
apple from a macintosh tree?
On those autumn nights,
when the sky was set ablaze by lonely
atoms clinging to one another, you
were the only thing that kept the chilled
wind from stealing my toes.

No matter how horrible things seemed
to get, you always found a way to
make me smile. You were like a chameleon
of attitudes, able to alter my mood,
almost instinctively, at the slightest
inclination of sorrow. Now you are nothing
more than a skink, smashed on the side
of the road by an idiot running by, and
I am the fool that didn’t look before he stepped.
I remember the fight, the insult,
your eagerness to defend me.
Swift slashes, cuts and scratches,
growls, bites, body slams. His agility,
your confusion, a flash of pain. You lick
your wounds, trying to recover, and I can
see his rage. He attacks quickly,
you try to reflect, but he thrashes forward,
taking you down as your tail whips helplessly.
I see his teeth clench down on you like a vice grip,
and the gusts from the vultures above
stomp out any embers of hope.

Your body lies on a casket of cold coals,
smoldering as your flame flickers slowly
in the gentle wind. I stroke your head, softly
scratching the back of your neck like you
always liked, and watch as your eyes
start to shut, sleep taking over. Soon
this will be over, and you’ll be safe again,
your body no longer bruised and beaten,
****** and broken. I try to catch my breath
as tears attempt to escape, but I won’t
let them. If this is the last moment
we have, I will not spend it crying.

The fire dies, snuffed out
by the cooling breath of dusk.
Eventually, the rain comes, covering
my cheeks with salt and sorrow.
Through misty eyes, I watch as the
sun sets, amazed that such beauty can
come in the midst of unimaginable despair.
The yellows and oranges fade to red, then
purple, and the sky fills slowly with darkness.
Although there’s been many miles since,
I feel as if I’m back in the mountains,
shivering in the frigid wind, but this time,
you’re not here to keep me warm.

You may think I'm crazy,
but I find it one of my only talents to look at something mangled and torn
and to find a sort of beauty in it.

You look at a corpse and say what vulgarity, but I say what peace.
They have finally escaped this game of a thing we call life, and are
free to have a silent mind.

Insanity is darkness's best friend.

You see, when you die you go back into the earth
unless you are preserved in a room full of cold tools designed
to dissect you - cells trying to understand cells:
competition exists even in the most minuscule forms.

There is no beauty to that. There is scarcely beauty in the human race
except in the faces that are forced to smile everyday against their will
and in the hard determination of hearts that want to give up.

I find beauty in the broken ones. I find beauty in the soil covering
back the flesh that it has created in contagion with the stars above
and the universe held together by the small particles that make up
who I am.

Don't tell me that a girl crying herself to sleep is not beautiful,
don't tell me that a boy crying in a hall is not beautiful, do not tell me
that these are ugly people and that bags under their eyes are just another
sign of weakness; because really, the bags under their eyes are large
spheres of purple designed to tell the story of late night thoughts and
struggles -- the bags, the stretch marks, the scars, the tears, the dripping
mascara, the screams, the gasping for air

They are there to remind us of the effects of sadness -- and in that way,
of beauty. Don't you see? They form the masterpiece which some of us
call ourselves. They each tell a story, and when we die, they die too. They
follow us unwillingly to remind ourselves of the past because who are we
without masks and secrets, lies and hateful treacherous thoughts?

We are nothing, that's what.

And that is not beautiful. That is hell.

Girl No. 1 wears her jeans cuffed and hates everyone but the Jets. Her voice is honey-thick around biting words. Smiling does not come easy to her. She wears her face like a mask—big glasses, big eyes, big quiet. When I see her, she lifts her hand in a grim wave, delta creases in her brown palm. Her excuse for her silence is that she’s boring, but she’s not. She dots her eyes with tiny stars and listens to German orchestra whenever she can. She thinks she has buried herself well, but bits of her still protrude from the topsoil, aching to be known.

Girl No. 2 is grey flannel and deliberate sentences. Her hair covers her face, yet when she speaks about trees and animals and the hole torn in our atmosphere by ultraviolet, ultraviolent rays, she is thunder. I gave her lotion for her cracked hands one time. When we smiled at each other after, we knew at once we were part of the same club. Girl No. 2 never corrects people when they forget her name. They say Kaitlyn, Kaleigh, Katie…let the word drop as if it were no more important than a used napkin. I hate it. I pick her used napkin name from the floor and smooth it over my lap. I say it right and she replies, with perfect seriousness, thank you: Thank you for the correct pronunciation of my identity.

Girl No. 3 is a hard one. Look at her once and you’ll see Maybelline lashes and a glass-cutting face. Look twice and you’ll see more. The sag of her shoulders, the stinging weariness of posturing for people far beneath her. I startle her. I’m too inquisitive for her taste. She does not want the world knowing her mother drank three liters of ***** before driving off a bridge, that her favorite color is celery green, or that anorexia and anxiety stalked her through the halls of high school like a pair of vultures. She wants to stay in her castle of ice, but it has imprisoned her. You poet, she teases me. You right-brained heap of color and sensitivity. You’re too much. I don’t know what to do with you. I ask her who she is and she recites her answer. 130, 125, 2315. But this girl is more than her IQ, her weight, or her SAT score, and when I tell her so, her Maybelline lashes are ruined.

i am more than the words he spits in
my face when he is too angry to care
how heavy and hurtful they might be




i am entirely too silent and breathing
smoke into my innocent lungs that i did
not choose to inhale in the first place




i am alone in a classroom filled with
twenty-eight other students because i
can't bear the thought of rejection




i am the youngest sibling watching her
oldest brother fall to pieces on the
back porch while her mother screams




i am the only daughter listening to her
youngest brother say he doesn't care
about his family enough to live closer




i am not worth the spare change in
your wallet or an unsealed letter missing
a stamp and return address to home




i am not worth the torn edges of my
unused history book or scarred knuckes
from holding my own hand too hard




i am hardly worth the free time you
have while you're doing your homework
and think it's okay to text me lies




i am quieter nowadays because you
told me one time when i wasn't speaking
anymore that i meant something to you




i am the girl who wants olive skin and
brighter eyes and a golden crown of hair
that might make you think you love me




i am sitting at a table full of people who
say they love me but don't know anything
about me except what i decide to tell them




i am often alone on holidays because i
tend to lose interest in things that
represent temporary smiles and affection




i am telling all these lies with my bitten
fingernails and backwards hiccups but
there might be a little truth in it all




i am no longer talking myself out of
falling for you because i've convinced
myself that you might be worth it

Watching the lightning, listening to thunder
Did I do the wrong or right thing
It’s got to make you wonder
What tomorrow might bring
to tear it all asunder.

Splitting our limbs and bringing the pain
Leaving us torn
We wonder why it came
But the fiercest storms
still bring the rain.

We try to hold on to what we forgot
Not to grow up and throw it all away
But the storm has taught
That life finds a way
And branches heal like it or not.

I miss my fiends and I miss my youth
If I could go back I don’t know what I’d do
Branches bend and on time moves
All things end but the search for truth

She’s heading to the cabinet for another run
through the field of dreams—or so it seems.
She’s been dipping into the till;
kind of hippie tripping right beside the still,
been running through the mill—just like
Jack was chasing Jill
up the road,
up the road,
then down the road that never seems to end.
It always has that unforgiving bend.
Good thing that I am not her friend, because
she would find her way into my cabinets;
she would crawl inside my cabinets,
take the tractor for a nice little plow.
Oh, so predictable—just like a cartoon mouse
rambling along through the rest of my torn house
to all my other cabinets,
to all my other cabinets.
Now she’s heading to my favorite secret spot.
Does a basic-entry sweep like I was always taught.
Pharmers’ daughters don’t make for nice friends.
I just need my cabinets until the very end.
Shouldn’t friends know when to say when?

As I sit here
With these tears
Of regret pouring
Down my hot cheeks,

You tell me everything
Will be okay,
Because you still love me.
But you don't

Understand that
Nothing is okay with me now,
Nothing.
I can't eat, I can't sleep,

I can't think.
My life is completely
Torn to shreds without you.
I have nothing left to live for,

I have nothing left to lose.
I just lost my everything,
So what's the point in trying?
There will already

Be a bullet through
My head when you answer
That question.

We have different thoughts when we lay awake at night,
You're worried about more alcohol,
I'm just trying to make you feel alright.

I have been trying to cradle your soul,
But it doesn't help it all,
Build you up to be bigger than me,
And you still feel small.

I have been waiting on nothing so it never arrives,
Falling asleep to neon lights through the curtains,
With tears in my eyes.

You said it yourself,
Timing is everything,
It's not just fate,
I'm always early and you're always late.

****
And you said it would be different,
That you were someone I could adore,
But it's all the same,
I give it all to you and end up torn.

What a shame.
What a shame.
Yeah, you were in the wrong
But I took the blame.

How do you count all the blessings that are sent from God.        
It becomes to difficult and it seems so hard.                                   You can never count all of his pain when one of us dies.            Or the amount of his tear drops every time he cries.                  You can never measure his smile when a child is born on earth. Or even come up with an amount of what his smile is worth. You can't measure the look on his face or see his scorn.            And we can't measure his hurt when his heart is torn.              We can't count how many times he has picked us up from the ground.                                                          ­                                              
Or all of the hugs he gives us whenever we're down.         There's no way of counting his love or his eternal grace.            Or even how many beautiful stars he has put into space. There's no need to count his blessings or measure his love.    
But it is really important to be grateful for the things that are sent from above.                                                           ­                          The bright green grass and the beautiful sunflowers.                 All the hot summer days and the cool sun showers.                   The subtle spring breeze and the cold winter snow.                  And the beautiful colored leaves when the Autumn winds blow. All the wonderful sounds when the little birds sing.                 And the twinkle in the sky that the night stars bring.             These blessings are endless and they go on and on.                These blessings have been with us since the day we were born. We can never count Gods blessings, but we should be grateful that their here.                                                            ­                     Because God gives us these blessings to show us that he cares. R. Mendoza

Winter
by Michael R. Burch

The rose of love's bright promise
lies torn by her own thorn;
her scent was sweet
but at her feet
the pallid aphids mourn.

The lilac of devotion
has felt the winter ****
and shed her dress;
companionless,
she shivers—****, forlorn.

Published by Songs of Innocence, The Aurorean, Contemporary Rhyme and The HyperTexts

###

Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch

When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?

When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?

Published by The Lyric, La Luce Che Non Moure (Italy), The Chained Muse, Better Than Starbucks, Glass Facets of Poetry and Trinacria

###

The Donald Trumps the White House Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Roses are red,
Daffodils are yellow,
But not half as daffy
As that taffy-colored fellow.

###

Isolde’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

According to legend, Isolde and Tristram/Tristan were lovers who died, were buried close to each other, then reunited in the form of plants growing out of their graves. A rose emerged from Isolde's grave, a vine from Tristram's, then the two became one. Tristram was the Celtic Orpheus, a minstrel whose songs set women and even nature a-flutter.

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash,
wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold
and you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize; since published by Ancient Heart Magazine (Australia), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Boston Poetry Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics, FreeXpression (Australia), Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass Facets of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), The New Formalist and Trinacria

###

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Published by Grassroots Poetry, Poetry Webring, TALESetc, The Word (UK), Writ in Water, Jenion, Inspirational Stories, Famous Poets and Poems

###

She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.

She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.

She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.

She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.

She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.

Love!—awaken, awaken
to see what you’ve taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, The Chained Muse, Inspirational Stories and Captivating Poetry (Anthology)

###

Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her, and is not the same.
I still love her and extend this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles!
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all.
Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck."

Keywords/Tags: rose, roses, thorn, thorns, lilac, lilacs, spring, summer, fall, winter, seasons