i am crying again,
because of him,
because he looks so
perfect in every picture he
takes and in every sunlight
that shines over him.
i am crying again,
because i know he will
never be mine,
and i want him so badly.
i am crying again,
because i promised myself
that i will not fall for him
again. i guess,
i broke my promise.
i am crying again,
because it takes every cell
and fiber in my body,
not to go to the ***** bathroom,
cry it all out and make new scars,
because i am going to the doctor's
in the morning,
and i cannot afford my mom‘s
stupid lectures.
i am crying again,
because i love him too much,
and because i know he will
find the perfect girl someday,
but she won't ever love him
the way that i do.
i am crying again,
because i will never be
yours, g.
and i want to,
so much.
i am crying again,
laying in bed,
looking at your pictures
in my phone,
and i am crying again,
because i will never
feel your lips on mine,
ever.

Grab your wings
And we'll sail away
From the secrets held by darkness
Into the brightness of the day

From the moments that hold us captive
And have kept us down so long
Hanging by a single thread
To an old familiar song

Hold on tight as we prepare the flight
In which we'll be leaving soon
Over brightly covered mountain heights
Underneath a crescent moon

We'll find answers to the questions
As we float gently on the breeze*
Flying low over fields of flowers
Skirting the tops of Redwood trees

Visiting ancient ruins
From the Palisades of the past
Where we'll find a future awaiting us
In the die that has been cast

With all that is just, set up just for us
In colorful array
So grab your wings, no need for other things
*As we'll be leaving here today

I have a question, love: Did you, when learning of my absence,
search for me? Did you look right there, in the air,
between the clouds and the sky - find me floating, filling your lungs?
Did you feel me pulsing through your veins, warming your bones

and caressing your spine? Did you look in the dusty corners of rooms
and cracks in trampled sidewalks? Did you ****** the covers and sheets
from your cold, stiff mattress, finding the pea that bothered your pretty
little head? Did you, for a second search for me?*

“Oh, but dear, I didn’t have to take a moment to question the taste
of the air or the warmth of my blood. I did not peak behind corners, nor
over any walls. I did not wonder what restricted me from sleep. For I knew-
you were there; I knew it was you. Tell me, lovely: what’s the point

in asking a question, when the answer I already knew? That all this pain,
and all this great sorrow was merely caused by you."

The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.

Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***,
along on every page.

****** and *****, gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.

So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.

Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!