Broken glass falling on the altar,
trees sprouting through the walls.
The priest has long left.
This congregation
scattered to the wind.
Once a proud building,
a place of faith.
Saints and sinner coming together.
Now welcomes,
feral cats and one night sleepers.
Lying awake on
torn down pews,
staring up at tarnished murals.
Lord,
watch over us,
if just for tonight.
Jesus was brought precious metals.
The copper is stolen from the AC unit.
The structure is boarded up.
Shut out.
Remembering what it used to be,
trying to forget its future.

A
P
O
E
M
This is how you write a poem.
Isn't it fancy and edgy?
No,
it won't make you drink or smoke.
But,
I'm sure you'd look cooler if you did.
Snap your fingers while you do it.
Warriors
come out and play.
A
P
O
E
M
Oh **!
It's poetry.
Wow,
this is horrible.

Ringing in our ears,
wild haymakers throw us off balance.
We are The Smoke.
Eyes jump and jive,
dancing,
to the music of earthquakes.
we stick and move
through terrain so tough,
The Devil himself gets tangled.
Feet pounding on yesterdays dreams.
Thundercats roar towards the sky.
Forgiveness is not given to the weak.
Hammering on,
always look twice before the fall.
Remember what it is like to fall and
forget the taste of strength.
The birds are hungry for their pound of flesh.
Move!
We run.
Left, left, right,
two forward,
three back and
once to the side.
The birds are closing in, watching with red eyes.
Swollen,
we run and
cross
this path,
leading us to the spit soaked floor and
broken chair.
Another round
and round we will go.
Hands cracked with every minute the clock beats down.
Forgetting the taste of victory.
Our lungs are filled with smoke.
We fall.
The wild ones smash through the Heavens,
warriors through and through.
We must forgive ourselves.
For glory,
we will shake The Smoke.

Lets do this
before the fire fight.
Hard, piercing eyes
blindfolded.
Awaiting time to
show one
the
way
to where they
came from.
Final moments flash
pseudo-relief.
This is all just
a trip down
an unfamiliar road.
The wait
is worse than
the event.
This isn't Heavens gate.
Thunderous
black heat
for
cold blood.
White hot reminders
piercing
through tired spirit.
The past breeds
tainted memories.
It's empty when
the world ends.
Lets do this.

When he ran
it was fire that followed.
An orphan with a family.
Remembering all the wrongs in the world.
These false pretenses
will be the death of him.
Forget what the past says,
and just keep running.
Through fire and wind,
change will occur.
Only when it is least needed.
These lies are eating up the insides.
They are making for a dark future.
Regret.
Regret nothing.
Just look for the wrong answers and
find the truth hidden in
this scorched Earth.
When he ran
it was fire that followed.
It was fire that extinguished
the truth.

I keep blinking,
flashing signs of God and man.
Hallelujah!
Gold crosses piercing into the thick, blue sky.
Follow the lines down to the bell tower,
on top of the rusted green roof.
Amen! I say Amen!

I'm anxious and
keep blinking.
Watching God through thick windows and
the sun is casting shadows.
Engulfing the bright red brick in doubt.

I keep blinking
and this is my only view.

A house for the faithful
closed,
boarded up from the elements
and the homeless.
The day of reckoning is upon it.

My eyes blink faster.
What have I done?
Wishing I could see the sky again.
Choirs of angels replaced by
the pigeons roosting on the falling gutter
of this fallen congregation.

Struggling with the faith
I have forgotten.

If life flashed before your eyes,
I'd better keep blinking.

The Lord's home is smothered by Black Locust.
Is this the new normal?
Doubting faith,
accepting that it's not just a building.
It's all around.

I keep blinking,
snapshots of forgotten faith.
Rain begins to fall on the Holy Site.
And I can't stop blinking.

I can only spin around in my chair
and forget.

A wise man once told me,
"Son, a million dollars is worth
a million dollars. "
That was the last time I saw him.
It has been six years and
I still can seem to find enough money,
to make him proud.

Once I saw lightning strike a field.
It was magnificent.
I could have sworn the Earth stopped.
It didn't.
Life never stops.

Do you want to know a secret?
The wise man was a fool and
life does end.
Shocking revelations from the fool's student.

When does the student,
become the teacher?
When the fool becomes intelligent
the world will know peace
or
burn.

A wise man once told me,
"Son,
live your hours day by day."

I still hold on to the knowledge and
live my life day by hour.

The ice flies through
electric avenues,
colliding with demigods and demons.
If there was a way to stop this storm,
it is far too late.
Spinning out of control,
into a darker abyss.
The laughter of a thousand scorn women
drowns out the fury.
The Moon will collide with the Earth.
It is only a matter of time
until the hourglass burns,
finally fixing all the cracks.
Lightning will strike through the
eye of a needle.
Then,
all the World's secrets will be revealed.
Falling off its axis,
turning towards damnation.
There is finally rest for the wicked.
There is justice for the unjust.
Laughter will fill the Universe.
The greatest joke ever told
was existence.

Laundry spinning and the humming of
other tenants.
I am drinking wine again.
There is a pattern.
Don't let anyone tell you differently.
The world is made up of shape and sounds and colors and
clocks ticking towards the end of another day.
If this poem is depressing I am sorry.
My sincerest apology to the past and the future.
The present isn't looking for another sin.
Always genuflect before entering this house,
the owner watches.
Do what makes you happy and
watch the TV fade to another show.
Yesterday the curtains refused to open,
the weight of the world is on their shoulders.
Forget the candles burning,
hot with anxiety and
go to sleep.
Frame the world in dark wood and ask the God,
any God,
for strength.
Laundry spinning and I rock in the chair,
thinking of eternity and how mice fit through such small holes.
Flip the channel.
Pull back the sheets.
This could very well be the end.
No mints on the pillows,
no courtesy calls.
I'll let you be the judge today and remember the shapes of clouds.

I have so much to do,
but I wont do any of it.
I'll keep the words to myself.
Forgive all and
fade into nightmares.
Don't be afraid.
The end has ended.

Lost at sea
smashing into fragments
adrift in thought.

Crashing onto the rocks,
drawn like flies who
have rejected honey
for something stronger.

Winds whipping to and fro.
No rest for the wicked.
The future is evasive.

Clinging to the undertoe,

As the waves crash over.

The water rushed in
from side to
side.

Overtaking the ship
the moon turns a blind eye
to the malicious assault.
Hiding behind dark clouds.

This storm is far too great.
For man to weather.
It is relentless.

Erasing us with sea foam,
washing away,
drowning all.
Sacrificial offerings to the sea.
Reducing the ship to driftwood.

There must be a stand!
Never give up!
Until the last breath!
No regrets, only choices!

Plunge headfirst into the sea.

It takes without warning.
It is hopeless to abandon ship.
These rocks are stripping
us down to skeletal remains.
Reclaiming what it believes
to have been wrongfully
stolen.
Dragging the remnants down
to choke on seaweed.

Siren’s songs reminiscent of
better days.
Eternally locked away
within Davy Jones Locker.

Only to be reborn the next day,

crawling onto the shore,

gasping for air, as light shines

again.

For every one that loves the mountains
snow-capped, drenched in soft clouds
rising high, jutting into the open air.
There is another full of hatred for the mountains.
They obscure the view of that which they love.
The open sky.
A horizon stretching out, hidden by a rocky wall.
Recede! Part your peaks!
Let us gaze upon the falling horizon with ease,
basking in Apollo's warm glow.
The mountains are selfish, the sun is afraid.
However, one only needs to climb this foe to see,
that together two becomes one.

Demons and Mirrors

I hope you will
remember me
for what you thought
I was,
not what I
really am. The
secrets I held
will stay with
me.
Please remember
that boy sitting
on a park bench in Prague,
wishing
he was back home.
Not the man
when he returned as.

I’m the man
with the demons
stuck behind the
mirrors.
Scratching for
the surface
of this
reality.

Oh,
if I could only
show the transformation
from
excited to
anxious.
No one will ever
be let into
what I
actually believe,
feel.
I must keep
this protection.
This is my kingdom.
Never let anyone
fully in,
It will drive them away.
Maybe,
that’s the best option.

Please remember me.


St. Michael,
the Archangel.
Defend us in battle.
Be our protector.

I’m the man
behind the mirror.

Please,
keep staring
at the broken reflection.

Just remember.

Old King Cole needs no introduction.
The lands cheer when he rises from his throne.
Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul.
He fancied wine and women,
Merlot and money.
Feasts fit for a king can always be found in his halls.
There once was fiddlers four.
That is until Old King Cole found one using his pipe and wife.
He is very protective of that pipe.
No,
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
Step out of line and you'd face the gallows.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
who ruled with an iron fist.
Old King Cole believed it was better to be feared than loved.
His garments were made of the finest textiles and jewels.
His people starved and he had more bowls.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
Indeed.

The wind howls
calling out to the
crumbling buildings
and the tenants that reside inside.
Slapping at the once ruby red bricks,
now a sad brown.
Time has taken its toll,
with no mercy.
No mercy for anyone.
The tenants are scared,
they cower in the center of the room.
What can be done?
The lion passes over the roof.
It crumbles.
Boards
snapped.
Screams
heard.

We
are the people
Igniting the flame
Breaking the chaos of the repetition.
Playing through this game of life
Trying to find the experience
Sliding into the grave
This is our fantasy
We live it everyday
Places to be,
People to see.
We’re never growing up
Dancing through life.
Graceful.
Precise.
Lost.
This is our final request.
Abuse.
Back then it was called making a man out of ya.
Blind folded, hands bond, cigarette on mouth.
Facing my ****** expectations of self-image.
What would you have us do.
You’re a king with no crown.
We all dream of heroics
But it fades in our memories.
We’ve have forgotten the dream.
This is a conversation between you and me.
Gazing at the stars.
This is our choice.
Living from day to day.
Minute to minute.
Focused on the ever-changing present.
This is our story.
And it goes a little something like this…

There is war.
There is fear.
There is hunger.
There is heartbreak.
There is anguish.
There is sadness.
There is death.
There is a change in the Dollar Menu at McDonalds.

I’ll tell you how this poem ends.
It’s with a hard knock and
a whole lot of painful questions.
Who? What? Where? When? Why?
But no how?

That’s a secret.

This poem ends with like taking advantage
of you,
then leaving while you’re still asleep.

It never really goes anywhere.
Sizzle Sizzle Pop Smack.
Just like that,
this poem flashes before your eyes.
Blaine would be proud.

I never read poems til the
bitter end.

No, I skip ahead,
even in my own poetry.
First sentence
to
the last word.

What does that say about me?
Like I said,
more questions.

Impulsive?
Maybe.

Let’s end it here.
Would that be the cowardly thing to do?
Or would it put this poem out of its misery?
It is starting to drag its feet.

I believe it is time.
Fingers crossed,
behind the back.

Click Click Bang Bang.

Don’t you hate it when poems drag on,
word after
word after
word.

Finished.

Faster and faster the poem spins.
It can see the curvature of the Earth.
Memories escaping into the fire.
The pen moves too rapidly and
the ink flows backwards.
Waves crashing onto bricks and mortar,
filled with the brightest stars.
What happens when the continents collide?
Home sweet home.
Forget about the fire and ice,
remember the feeling of
holding hands with a stranger.
Under a blanket of guilt and anxiety
the night will come to a close.
Birds flying overhead
reminding society of their ethical dilemmas.
What is right and wrong,
when you have unlimited power?
We have made it through the night.
Throw caution to the wind.
Swirling around in an electric cyclone,
this is
an environmental disaster.
Unlimited power.
Let it drop.

Sometimes the hero must die
masking the hopeful vision.
A blanket of black.

Not all tales begin with “once upon a time
and end with twilight.
The villain will win.
Ushering in an unholy time.
Happily ever after?
Consider it dead.
This may not work out in the end.
The only question is
How will it end?
Will it end?
How long can this last?

To Death,
roses smell like
spirits
six feet deep.

Life is spent searching for life.

St. Michael,
The Archangel
Defend us in battle.

The oppressed will rise,
only to be crushed again.
Never forget…

Hope takes time.

But what if hope never comes.

That
is how stories end.

And if the story has to end,
at least the beginning can be remembered.

This is my chance to test
my abilities.
Drunken apologies.
Hung out on rose beads.
A forced ***** counter culture to

counter culture to

counter culture to

counter culture.

Decipher these words.
To show the world my isolated talents.
A fragmentation of  myself.
The way war is the rawest form of humanity.

At a crossroads of
bright city lights
and
gazing at the stars.
Clockwork ***.
A thousand beautiful diseases.
Words that knew what changes was.
Between reality and insanity.
Concealed.
Like an unfinished book.

Lets tell this never ending story.
Shoot first
And ask questions later.

We spend half our lives,
wishing the other half away.
Can I live?
If my mind is at ease, I’m not.
I just want to be a poet.
And these are my thoughts.
Spilled out into ink.
This is how I chase my dreams.

But don’t worry.
The best is yet to come.

If you want real love,
get drunk and cry into a mirror.
The broken shards are like...
Okay...sorry...
That was about to be really cliche.
It was going to rip out your heart and
be so emotional.
Instead,
it just makes me look cold and heartless.
Which shows you my broken soul.
Now I am just coming off as pretentious and
I am okay with that.

What is going on in that beautiful mind?
Are you thinking of me
or iced tea?

Drowning in my pillow,
waking up
realizing that this
isn't me.
I am watching life
flash.
Days from sunrise to set
people,
places,
ideas...
Thinking of what should
have happened
but
what really occurred.
I keep re-reading this chapter,
like some emotional teenager.
The next chapter is
being drafted,
everyone has their pen.
They're scribbling.
What are they doing?
Should this be different?
Is it this hard to move on?
I am becoming restless,
tossing and turning.
Sun bursts through the curtains.
Slowly moving my eyes
to the music of
Mozart,
refocusing on the bottle of air-freshener.
Oh,
what another day.

Rock n’ Roll
lightning.

Shot through from

head to
toe
better to

burn

out than
fade,

fade away.

Floatin’ down
Whiskey river

on
silica burned
canoes.

Fast paced
Holy City
conversations
left wanting

more.

Oh, don’t say
that this might be
the end of
our time here.

It has
only just begun
to hurt.

This is
why dreams
are built
on top of
nightmares.

Because we are
too ****** up
to feel that

This has happened
Before.

This collapse.

Slowly,
the trick is
becoming
more complex.

What more can be done?
Than to laugh.

Laughing.

As the walls crumble
into inner
thoughts of…

If only we would
look to
both sides
before crossing.

Oh everything is supposed
to turn out right.
If only right was
right.

Hahahahahahaha.

Please stop rhyming in poems.
Start using Kung Fu.
What is going on?
This isn't my universe.

I've been away for a while and
I'm not quite ready to return.
Write me off with a red pen.
Poetry dripping in ink,
even though it is online.
Can you hear the voices singing?
Once more the lion roars and then
it falls silent.
The mouse is shifty character.
The villain of this poem.
Weaving it's way through the words,
hinting at destruction.
Did you miss me?
The villagers are growing restless.
I am content to fade away.
Oh,
please Lord help me.
As I become a poetic ghost
drifting through the world of words.

Looking at the frozen rocks,
trying to decide what
is so beautiful about them.
There has to be something.
Beauty is in everything.
They glisten in this clear January day.
Thousands of them
sitting there.
Mysteries unsolved.
That is why the Gods
laugh at us.
We turn nothing into
nothing.
Our grasp on the infinite is
already so thin.
Every rock must be turned over.
The beauty is elusive.
That is the beauty.
Staring at these rocks
help make us understand what
might happen to us.
Carefully observing the universe spin,
traffic lights change,
birds fly overhead,
these rocks unfreeze.

This is how love
flies through a needle.
Forgetting about the past and
running around the world.
All in a single leap.
This is how love
dies,
gasping for air in a fish tank.
Forget the future,
punch the mirror until it hurts.
Glass shards falling on the floor.
Reflecting on the all the world's sins.
There can only be one.
Sacrifices.
Betrayal.
Laughing at the clown,
that tries to tame the lions.
This will blur the lines
between forgiveness and anger.
Which will help you survive?
The Prince and the Pauper.
Oh,
this is how the fire
becomes a flame.
One wish at a time.
Innocence.
The lions are hungry.
They have been caged for the last time.
The music begins to play.
Mozart.
Dance to the beat of
a thousand soldiers,
flying into the sun.
One day,
in the very distant future,
this will still not make sense.
Hear,
touch,
taste,
electricity.
Please,
take solace in that fact.
Falling into mythology at break neck speed.
It is wonderful,
knowing that everything can fail.

Start with an idea and go from there.
Just let it flow,
like Titan strikes back at the dawn.
Always remember that the worst a person can be,
is when they are by themselves.
Sometimes,
staring at the sky,
nostalgia forgives me.
I would like to think that I am a good person.
Momma says never lie.
A lie will lie to the liar.
A thief will steal from a thief.
Once I saw Jack the Ripper,
asking for a favor.
"Come with me", he said.
So, I did.
Clocks ticking and tocking,
rocking to the rhythm of times to come.
I remember a time when happiness was a memory.
Please,
oh please,
travel the World and see the people,
not the sites.
Okay,
maybe see the sites.
I once saw The Fog,
moving swiftly across the pond.
Engulfing everything in his path.
Why is The Fog masculine?
I don't think he even knows the answer.
Yesterday,
there was an article describing the state of the World.
It has since been taken down.
Fitting really,
the World will end with a click of the mouse,
destroyed by the comment section.
Walking down the stairs into The Underground,
figuring out all of life's questions.
All aboard.
Do you realize?
I watched the sky fall.

You're mean.
You're nasty.
That's why God put me on this Earth.

You're full of hate.
How can you live with yourself?
A question I ask twice a week,
maybe three times.

When the sky opens up
and rays of sun blanket the homeless
sleeping on park benches.
I feel nothing.

Putting a sea shell to my ear and
listening for the tsunami to crash down.

Yep,
pessimism did **** the cat.
Curiosity was just a cover up.

I'd like to think that
I am mean,
nasty,
and full of hate.

Standing up to the sun and
shouting out clouds.
Tomorrow will forgive my sins
and give me false hope.

The world will spin backwards
and tonight I will lose myself.
The clock doesn't stop the child from crying
and neither will I.

In a world that is warm,
I am mean, nasty, and full of hate.

There are stains on the walls and mattress.
The linens have more holes than a cheese grater.
Spent cigs burned into the dresser and
the light is dim.
Oh, Flophouse
you are truly great.
The Holy Bible would be ashamed.
The moans and groans fill the room with one night pleasure.
The walls are cracking and the carpet is cheap.
For a couple bucks,
there is a hour of
"What just happened?"

I walked by a man today.
Can you spare some change?
I laughed and continued through my day,
not realizing that the wine would go down this smoothly.
This makes me a bad person or
should I be ashamed of the world?
The walls are dotted with flowers and
peacocks.
When people say they need money to survive,
do they mean food and water?
Shelter and clothing?
Wine legs crawl down the glass.
Has the world come down to paper?
I roll a quarter across the hardwood to see how far it'll go.
**** these rules!
The game will be lost if we die romantics.
Jaded individuals wishing
they could remember the song that is buzzing through their brains.
I just keep walking towards my car.
It didn't hit me then when he said,
"I'm serious."
Another day amongst the rose and tulips,
all the flower bouquets at the store.
These soaked sins will catch up to us all.
I promise this isn't always my state of mind.
When I walk amongst the flowers and drink Merlot
the wind whips up the it's best face.
Sir,
I am truly sorry.
I was on my way to another place and
forgot my humanity at the door.
The day was bleak and
clouds painted the sky with trouble.
Cheers to the sun and moon.
Cheers to good wine.
Cheers to nightmares.
I hope this poem makes me remember.
Cheers to survival.

A bird in the hand used to be worth two in the bush,
however, with today’s current exchange rates
you’ll be lucky to get half.
And if the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
we may never eat again.
But should it fall,
it’ll probably spoil the barrel.
We’ve stretched ourselves thin.
Living off of borrowed time.
The cat had to sell seven of his lives,
just to feed his family.
I’ve heard that the grass is always greener on
the other side
but,
all I can see is a strip mall being developed.
Gone are the days when a fool would part so easily with his money.
That fool lost it all in the stock market and bought a gun.
An empty purse frightens all.
Lucky for us, we pay with credit.
People can say all they want,
words will never hurt us.
However, if they use sticks and stones there may be a problem…
We don’t have good health insurance.
There is a fine line between hope and utter despair.
It is just the beginning.
What comes next
will have a profound impact
on everything in life.
The pieces of this puzzle
will fall into place.
That stars will fall into line.
The dawn will be reached through the darkest hour!
Rome was not built in a day.
Then again…
Rome was sacked…

This is what I got.
A title that really means more
than all of these words.
Writing a poem is
like a breath of
cliche.
I have been working on
moer than I can handle.
It is causing me to misspell.

Sure,
I could sit down.
write
write
write
Why?

None of these poems will ever
change the world?
Maybe, they will change one person's world.
Maybe, they have changed my world.
I am different.
Before I had clockwork,
now I have this.

Is this a change?
Is this a poem?

St. Michael,
The Archangel.

What should I think?

Wake me from this haunting.

I have become
the monster.

Defend us in battle.
Be our protection
against ourselves.

This world will show
only what we need to see.

The Devil is
watching us
dance to the bottom
of the bottle.

Sinking

into disassembly
This is not my true face.
No one will ever see that
I prefer to keep it close.

Waltzing by myself…
The only dance I’m allowed.

St. Michael,
The Devil is seeking the
ruin of souls.

I’m anxious.

Drinking alone.
Just waiting for something to happen,
watching life spiral into
madness.

The universe is expanding
and I am staying the same.

What does this all mean?
The story is slowing down
and I need more time;
to fully understand
what the other side wants.

Bending to the will of others
Please help me now…

I am trying to be the
best I can be in this life.

Oh,
the ending is
coming far too soon.

Defend us.

I will become that
better person.
I know I can.

I must.

What happens now?

These dreams
are becoming far too
real.

Shattered glass turns into
blood red water pouring
out of *******.

Life begins to
forget about
reality.

It is only at the end of the day
that night begins
to feel anxious.

Forget about the wind
and focus on the
breeze.

Oh,
the world has only
just begun.

Young man,
young man.
Don't walk through the sunbeams.
If they catch you,
it'll be your head.
But,
what use is a head,
if there is no body.

Whisper through the cracks in the painted tiles,
tell the preacher your sins.
He is the only one that can help you
through this trying time.
What if the times aren't trying?
The clock is broken.
Stuck
at a quarter til twelve.

I am feeling faded,
like looking through the eye of a needle.
Watching the brave men
charge into the abyss.
This is their greatest pleasure.
This is my worst nightmare.

We are greater
than the clock
the sun
the abyss.

I heard once that when you stare into the abyss,
it stares back.

I hope that my abyss is blind.
I hope that the tiles are not cracked.
I hope that the clouds block the sun.
I hope.

Old man,
old man.
What do you know?

Walking around the dead grass and up through the trees
the bell rings and they
scatter.
Not to the winds,
but to ground.
Looking around with wild in their eyes,
they want the world to end.
Then they can be kings.
Dodging a society that chained them to small strips of lands.
The map is drafted in blood and cold.
They never look up the heavens,
for fear of hope.
Hope is something to be earned,
not for everyone.
The sun forgets to shine,
waiting for the moon to die.

So old,
they have forgotten their names.
The flames of reality burn their skin,
scorched earth and flesh.

The angels look down from Heaven and
scream.
This is the chosen people.
One day,
The monsters will come out of their trees,
rise from the dead grass.
Walk this Earth as they once did.
Until then,
their eyes will pierce the ground
and their feet will float.

Watch your back.
If you need evidence,
look in a mirror.
Spinning and spinning.
Until the clock drowns in
battery acid.
It will laugh no more.

Dreams are bursting
out,
popping.
With a subtle hint of
Phosphorus.
It’s a conundrum.
To hold onto the past,
while promising the
future.
That you’ll be there.
Forever.
The way it goes
is strange to say the least.
Delving
into slight madness.
Life’s tongue
in your cheek.
Who is truly holding
the strings to
this show?
Showcasing
fact into
folklore.
Unleashing the imagination.
Warping  what we believed,
what we thought,
sensed,
touched,
felt.
Wishing the penny could be flipped
once again
into the well.
This count down
begins at sunrise.
It never progresses.
Like the light at
the end of the tunnel.
Exploding into fire
and a cloud of
haze.

What should I write about?
Please make this and every decision like it
A detailed blueprint laid out
Against a world that is imagined
Please tell me how to write these lines…
Where are the breaks?
The stanzas are incomplete
My pen is running out of ink
I’m just filling in the blanks
The past was the first draft
The present is exactly that
Imagine the future
Don’t let me become this
I’m proud of you
Everything you’re doing, everything you are
Losing track of myself
You see what happens when I’m given control
No longer, “what should I write?”
Rather
What can I do…
Seeing the world from behind my eyes
Imagining the path before me
Laid out
Brick by brick
I may burn out
I may fade away
I refuse to not live.
For now the days are peeling off the calendar.

I wrote a short story once.
The villain was standing in the end.
Waiting for the sun to rise over the mountains and
the snakes fell through holes.
I can hear the sounds of silence.
I can see colors floating through clouds of liquor.
A bottle of wine and the whole world seems
flawless.
Maybe,
I am the flaw and the world is trying
to erase me.
The blood flowing through my veins is electric.
It is strange how the world turns,
yet these walls don't break.
Staring at the ceiling and I can hear the birds chirping.
Please,
God help me through this day.
I can not forgive myself.
Only the heroes remember the past.
It is simple nostalgia.
That is the key to destruction.
Love.
Maybe,
that is the key.
One
Two
Three
the trick is over and the spark ignites.
The Earth will one day turn to gold.
One day.
Stars sparkle in the night sky and
the pieces move about the chess board.
Only through capture is there hope for escape.
One day.

This is a poem.
This is not a poem.

To all of those
who consider me a writer.
You are only fooling yourself.

write a poem they say
it'll be fun they say
why don't they practice what they preach
and write this poem for me
I hate writing poems with meanings
they never come out
right
or is it left
behind
this can be summed up in a word
disappointing
I hate long poems

I like short poems.
Second only to ****.
They make me feel like I have accomplished something.
When I really...

Paralyzed by fear I sit
in this damp and draft apartment.
The hard wood floors whip into
tidal waves of displeasure.
I study the dust
flying through vacant space and wonder
about thieves and paupers.
What happen to the shining chandelier?
Broken glass and there is light falling on my face.
The Jesters are dancing in the moonlight.
The curtain whips into a frenzy and
the music tells the story of my life.
A scream flies through the air and
lands on an empty chair.
Darkness for the sake of darkness.
When do demons get their rest?
I reach for the door and the **** melts
like chocolate in the summer sun.
A scream.
I turn around and the old man is back.
His crooked smile reminds me of peeling wallpaper.
A time long before now.
This moment is not the last, but not the first.
Life is but a middle ground.
All waves cease
and the ceiling fan paints a picture of defeat.
Why does beauty need a symbol?
All doors point to more doors that point to
more apartments.
Hallways filled with creatures and empty cans.
Do demons have demons?
I lay on the floor and
let it take me.

I find myself
wanting to change,
everything.

I want to go
back and do it all over,
again.

Please,
just this once.
Don't listen to me.
I wouldn't change it.

It made me who I am
today.

I want to walk
over cobblestone roads.
Gaze over red clay tops
and
breathe foreign air.

Remember my
favorite wooden bench,
under the old tree,
dying.
Where I watch the water
speed by,
such is life.

Bolted firmly to the ground,
keeping me from...
Bridges in the foreground,
pale blue
summer sky.
Cloud creepying over
the city.
Whispering,
watching.

A work of art,
one of the finests I've ever seen.

A momentary vision
of something I did not
appreciate.

Next time...

I rubbed his foot.

Don't forget to laugh
when you fall down the stairs.

Don't forget to smile
during the car crash.

Don't forget to grin
as the sky falls.

Don't forget to cry
when the clown trips.

Don't forget to love.
Even when the stars are not aligned.

Forget everything.