Flowers For a GraveFlowers for a grave,I'll lay them in a row,What could have been,What should have been,And what will never be.That promises of beautyHave such fragility.From dust to dustThe words we spoke.I'll say them in a row,I love you.I'll stay with you.You said you wouldn't go.Flowers for a grave.The dead in silence keep.Weep for all the wishesLife rarely lets us reap.I'll bury you. You'll bury me.We'll fade and crumble so,Like flowers picked before their timeThat in the graveyard go.
SplashThere's blood in the water,And sharks keep swimming circles in my head.My tongue's like a plank,And I'm just walking, walking.Talking, talking in circles.There's blood in the water...
AntimonyI heard a song. It went like thisHeartbeat set to serpent's hissStricken by a deadly kissPoison spreading burning blissAnd then a crashing comet trailOf smoke and ash strait down to hellDown in the killing kilnAtomizing, cartorizingBurning things awayAwayBurning things awaySo I found you sitting thereHumming faintly your sad airYour fists were clenched. Your feet were bare.It's rare that music get's down hereBut maybe we could forge some wingsAnd fly to where the air still singsAway from the killing kilnTakes some breaking and reshapingChanging blood and boneYou knowChanging blood and boneSo shall we face our fates togetherWe fallen ones, we birds of featherWill you stay with me a measureTill we can fly to something betterTill we can forge ourselves some wingsWings for wicked, sparkly thingsPulled from the killing kilnPurifying, redefiningTurning lead to goldTo goldTurning lead to goldSo shall we claim our wingsWe wicked, sparkly things
Van GoghI saw the eyes of a madmanIn a New York galleryThat made me think of your eyesWhen they looked at me,And I stood there and rememberedWhat it meant to beThe light that faded from themIn that dark insanity,And how I still rememberWhat it was to seeWhat the dying look likeIn that New York gallery.
In My CupsIt's amazing when you're drunk enoughHow everything seems fine,A certain sort of clarityBorn from the sodden mind,And though the page before me seemsIt really isn't there,The hands I hold before me mightBelong to someone else,How strange that I must love youSo I can give you up,A sacrifice before meThe blood within the cup.
CrushCrushing you - it all bleeds through,These vague potentialities.I find that in the drifts of timeI'm drawn to doomed realities.Crushing you - what I must do,Defining principalities.From sublimation to sublimeTo save eventualities.
GobbledygookString beansString em up from floor to ceiling.The walls are peelingLike yesterdays orangesPrepared for the squeeezeAnd the repastwe've been waiting for.
The Grinch of Christmas PresentGone with the deadlineMagic turned to bitten nailsHopes for bigger shoes
AhemEloquent drivel-Slug trails shimmer in moonlight,But it's still just slime.
It Is Bad to Be [READ DESCRIPTION]It is bad to be fat, too skinny, average, curvy.Blonde = Stupid, Black = Emotional, Brunette = Boring, Red = Soulless, Colorful = Too CreativeIt is bad to be gay, trans, heterosexual, lesbian, asexual, pansexual, demisexual, bisexual, etc.It is bad to be Christian, atheist, Catholic, Agnostic, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Polytheistic, Monotheistic, etc.It's bad to be a different race:Black = Dirty or Nigger, White = Racist or Cracker, Hispanic/Latino/Latina = Illegal, Asian = AlienIt is bad to be a woman, man, or genderless.It is bad to be homeless, middle class, rich.There is a judgement for every single personWhether you believe prejudice people do not exist, or do exist.Whether you believe you are not good enough, or too good for anybody.Whether you believe humans are created equal, or not.Whet
you are what you lovethis girl dreamsfar too much;her bed has turned intoa nightmare graveyard,full of wilted rosesand broken spines.wanderlust is a toxin.one that fills her lungs with eachbreath and with every poisonedheartbeat, she yearns for a worldwith moons of gold and a silver sun.yet—she would rather listento those sweet nothings than havethe philosophy of realityshoved down her throat.this girl does not wantto live in black and white;no, she craves colorand the freedom it tastes like and ifthe chains that that shackle herstarving soul refuse to unlock,she will tear them apartwith her own two hands.
The SameYou.Me.Assholes.I don't see the difference,We're all going to die.
grow up, dreamer girlwe can't all keep wishing and running on starlight.sometimes, the magic runs out.you may be made to run your fingers through silk petals and glossy hair,but i am expected to be dark earth, a pillar of metal and rust,an open woundi want to run back to my dreams, but sometimes they areno longer there, or their flights have been delayed again.
unthey call me tide-breaker.my name frequentswhores' mouths,and they speak of mebetween the sailors' maps.I am salt and brinebeneath fingernails,the oncoming threatof dark clouds that hangtheir gallows above the ocean.I'm the enigma,the split-secondflash of lighton the sea's cusp;they only ever thinkthey see me,but I am always there.oh yes,I've seen theirdirtied skin,their weathered faces,that lustful thirstin the eyes of men surrounded by water.it is only natural, I suppose,for those bound in chainsto grow fond of the metallic clacking.it becomes all they have.and I, well,I am only hereto watch and play my part.their wives at homewill look seawardand sighand wonderbut it is Iwho will have someone to hold.they say mermaidsdrown unworthy sailors,but they never acknowledgethat most men simplythrow themselves overboardat the temptation of something beautiful.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
.you are an open bookwith a strong spine;you, toohave a story to tell
We've neglected the lessonsour generationhas stomped on the gravesof our ancient ancestor's bodiesburied deep beneath muted earth tones,and we've dug up their bonesand thrown them against cavern walls,do you hear their beckoning calls?we told youwe told youwe told you alland our generationhas sold our soul to the devilbecause the devil wears Prada, Moschino, or Coach,the devil doesn't care about thegrumbling tummies of our skeleton childrenor their parched tongues,can you hear their bones rattling like our ancestors?do you hear their echoing calls? we told youwe told youwe told you all our generation sayswe march to the beat of our own drumbut it seems we stole this drumfrom the old man at the music shopwho couldn't make enough to pay for his own skin,to cover his crumbling bonesor maybe we've built this drum from his ashes,because of what use are old men,whose bodies could have been in an antique shopis that the beat of the drum, or a whimpering call? we told you
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.