UntitledNothing There was once a man who lived in a grey city.He was quiet,And no one noticed him.He lived alone,In a large houseThat could have easily fit two.The hallways were always full,Filled with the mournful colours,That bled from crayon tips. Everyday this man went to work,Then returned as the sky turned black.Everyday this man was greeted by nothing,Smiling, until the man trudged away.Nothing was nothing after all.It was always the same routine.Every day for the longest time.But the man never changes. The same.No matter how hard anyone tries to make the man realize,That there is Something.That it is yearning for his attention,That all it cares for is him,He will always blind himself from these things.Besides, it wouldn’t matter.Nothing would move on.It would forget. So many years.You left me alone,But why?Did you fear me?Did you hate me?Did I make you feel guilty?I still loved you anyway.
PrayerPlace your poemson the lips of angelsso you can teach their wingshow it feels to flyalways upward.Mark the summer eveningssoon to comewith the gracethat carried youamong us,warm and cherished softlyand know we will always placeyour wordsamong the stars.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happyTo leave their home for her newest installation pieceShe cried sometimes for no reason other thanShe felt like having a good cryHer house was covered in her students’ drawingsShe said the best art was produced from innocenceShe went mad once, and painted canvas after canvasIn furious strokes of blackThe soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew oldPeople shook their heads when they saw herAnd whispered “poor dear” under their breathBut she was never poorHer love for everything and everyone never diedIt was swept in all directions like a summer breezeMaking people smile without knowing whyBut the river rocks know
growththere is nothing more beautifulthan the softness of a manyou love more thanthe earth(shaking, geode),a face gentle in sleepand ardent in morning;there is nothing more beautifulthan the first breathof your spring,your blooming dawn,the incomingof nothing but you(blossoming, emerging,here,you flourish)—here,you are growingand transforminginto something new,and there is nothingmore beautifulthan that.
Mastering MeIn another universe, I have green eyes, curly hair,and paint smeared across all my fingers--a war cry of artistryinstead of needlepoint scars.The pooch of my bellyand the lumps in my thighsmight be from anything elsebut the insulin I inject four times a day.I grow up a child, not a parent,the master of my destinynot running away but running toward;I'm a little bit tallerin spirit and stature,in all the ways that matterwhen darkness creeps under the doorand phantoms howl.I shave my legs every dayinstead of once every monthonce every three monthsonce every only now and again when I feel like itand I'm confident--a goddess with the stars around her neckinstead of pearls--in any type of heel.In another universe,I still trust myself behind the wheel of a car;I have mastered winged eyelinerand smokey lids;I gave up chocolateor caffeineor whatever it isthat brings on migrainesjust because I could,just because it's better for me,just because.
There was an old clock in the hallThere was an old clock in the hall,Whose gears had been broken and stalled. Then ticking ensued, And it filled all the rooms,Though it wasn't the old clock at all.