StruggleWhy is my heart so filled with sin?Why must I struggle with this filth within.Save me Lord from myselfAnd show me how to love.
Sleep TightIt's a bright night.I might write about:Thoughts of a fight!Then a flight from spite...Don't bite.. You're too uptight.But don't delight in your plight.It's not right to skite.What a sorry sight.Gotta reach quite a height.I'm not quite uprightOn this bright night.Sleep tight.Sorry sight.
FatigueI have had enough ofThis bitter drink.Too tired to think.
Sinful WorldA broken man, shattered by his lover.Fallen tears splash in the gutter.I am sickened by this sinful world.Why do people have to hurt one another?
Another Day - Another NightWhy do I sit at the computer all dayWhiling weary hours away?I think the nights must know me well,Hoping for something to cheer my soulI fear the sleep that steals my timeAnd while away another day.
The SpectatorFrustration finds itself in you.And if you weren\'t such a favoured friend,I may have never bothered.But since your friendship means so muchI will throw myself into the depths of despair,And leave with down-turned face,The notion of a friend behind,Who shared my weekends kickingA ball around a park.I hope that we will long remain friends,And with that hope I lift myself from the depths,To enjoy your company as you freely give it,And set my sights on the game.
Butterflies of Your LoveA torrent of soft wings floodover my closed eyes,as I see myself from the outside,dreaming of you.Butterflies (a million shades of white)caress my faceand flow around melikeyour love.
Silence haikuano hito desu.shizuka ni narimasu.utsukushii desune.
I drownI too fight against the tide.As I am pulled backand forwardI hopeThis torment makes meWiser not weaker.And as we pass the breakersI find it ever more difficultto swim ashore.I feel guilt, like a weight,pulling me underAs I drown in your emocean.
A Day in the Lives of Foxes and BirdsOver blue marble counter tops,coins click between fidgety fingersand people loiter, cluster,shuffle, ruffle their clotheslike birds dipping their beaksto the asphalt in the packed parking lothoping for nesting papers and food.With rustling plastic bags clenchedin palms still prying destiny from time-worn lifelines,his pupils appear parrot-pinpointin hasty decisions and desperation.Before he leaves, he chirrups at mefrom the wrong side of the register--"Do you need a husband?"And I, fox-sly and slippery in the reeds of my day,hold back laughter and answer with a straight face--"I've already got one,but thank you anyway."
brutal honestyHave you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I amand what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.S T O P and think for a second and say,who are y o u, are you happy with whatyou d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;but are they enough?Be h o n e s t.are you w h oyou want to be?O R are y o u,j u s t y o u ?False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you knowin the end h o n e s t y will feel like a numbing narcoticthat eases the a c h e and lets the gash become
my old friendthe warmth against your cold embracesettles my bones in for the long months.your beauty in the stoic days is unique;placid white trees of lace, glass drippingfrom the rooftops.i'm sorry i hated you so,please come back
the book of decemberat last you admit that the citydoesn’t exist, a puff of iodine nicotineto dispel fairytalesgrey dawn over nevaand it’s gone and it’s ambulance againthe folds of their chins like wilted passportsand they bend and whisper-whose pained whispers will you hear in the blizzardthere is a potent masculine lonelinesscologne rupturing and freezing the nostrilssnow-covered town and deserted cafes you’ll learn to drivesomething in it tears and calls you from the insideyour thighs squeezed together you sighto go to never listen to the wind its ear is frozen to the flagpole to carry the weight of a thousand sacrificial sp
Funny Little MenI am a coalesce of the darting goblins from the crisscrossing tangles of my aging,from the clown’s laugh which made me weep bitterly, to the old farmer’s cautionthat tasted for me my first lick of self-conscious toxin,I am an old figurehead with these faces costuming me head to footas much as I attempt to shatter this stream drinking me to ledge’s jump I cannot sufficientlyunhinge my brandisherwith every other mechanism of my force I made chance to pull the tapestry discordant waysfor moments those watching lost their sneerI jerked myself from that course and again into stony comprehensionThe twisting follower was gaining my steps again—I mirrored its struggleAs it regained a uniform I fell still beside itAnd finally the stream faced me ahead, we looked upon one another, I could not sufficientlyUnhinge my brandisher, so I dangled upon the trigger, and charged, hurling my own hand
questionableif i were to describe heri'd say she was as easy to explainas all the numbers on the spectrum.she was notthe kind of girlto tell God whatIt wanted to hear.she was clearand achingly soto the point where i could fall beneath her finger tipsand her dust would beuntainted.i still rememberher tastelike pennies in my mouththe kind of pennies you findon the boardwalkthe ones that give you good luckher name was samanthaand she was not just a flowershe was a wilted rose.
he's not a poet but his words are goldhe wasn't what most girls would call a blessing.he wasn't smartand was bad at playingthe guitar.he didn't haveblue eyes and long eyelasheshe didn't havea mysterious past lifeand his parents weren't rich.but when he sang to meand played the guitar -i didn't care that it sounded like my aunt's ten year old cat.because at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand i could still smellthe sweat on him after a long day at work.he was horrible at cookingbut that didn't matter because i was tooand we were happysitting in front of our TVwatching Jimmy Neutronand eating last night's Chinese take out.and he wasn't perfect -i won't tell you how many timeshis words have made me wantto kill myself.he couldn't understandthat he hurt meand he never knew how to fix itbut that's okaybecause at nighthe held onto meand i held onto himand we could both hearour heartbeats -just because they weren't in harmonydoesn't mean that they couldn't sound like music.
An open letter to Honesty. I shall be honest.Bare my cotton-dyed blanket of a soul. To you, onlooker, to your perverse desire to listen to the unthinkable.I won't judge, but you'll surely judge me by the last verse. I'm planning to make-out with her in a maze of gravestones,hidden under a morbid curve of some corpse that has long began to fester.Because as always I am more in love with the poetry of my setting than of the honesty of emotion in it. I find smoking romantic, even though my mind has been plastered with images of the horrid bloated gums that it will bring.But all I imagine is a deer-eyed blue-eyed misfit with a stumble and insomniac eyes to blow nicotine gusts on my lips. Let the carbon dioxide of it's flame make my lips dry and let his ashen ones spark them awake. I believe my father to be a hypocrite, for he allows me to watch two people mindlesslyfuck but if a man in a drag sings about absolute pleasure, then he shall bring the blunted name "Jesus Chri
Prologue In the Realm where souls are placedSet to lay their restevery millennium a tournament is heldA promise of another chance to walk the earthbut the price of losing?is that your soul is destroyed.They never gather enough participantsso Innocent souls are awakened to fills these gaps.Some act as fodderothers prevent the maniacal from returning to the world of lifeThere is guaranteed to be one winner,one to reenter the worldrarely a tie is heldbut when the final two destroy each otherA combined life is born.
To my friendShe's alway's there when I am sad,In times of need when things are bad.She smiles with me when I am glad andTempers me when I am mad.Ever gentle; sheRemains - the best friend I have ever had.