You stand here today,
As brave as can be,
You want to fight to win,
But my friend,
Life isn’t all about winning,
You have to lose to learn,
Just how to win.
How???Were are the words
I need to say
but I don't know
how to say them
cause I don't
know what they may be.
My BabyI have a baby on the way
an I can't wait
it's what I have hoped for
an never thought I would get lucky
an have one grow in me
when I gave up an
had no hope
I was lucky
an got what I always wanted
now I can't wait to see it's face
I love You the most.
Point BlankThis bitch is wacke
she thinks it's ok
to just smoke crack
does she care about others?
she only cares
about her next high
you think she cares if she dies???
cause that's what drugs do.
A little but moreA dad
is a guy with a child
that rises an love the child
the kid has there heart
no matter what they will love the child.
will be a dad soon
an he will love an care for the child
just like a real dad should.
UntitledI prove points
I don't chicken out
if a point needs to get out
I let it out.
loud an clear
liars aren't on my side
I kinda wish
they just roll over an die.
i was born to destroy youi am no hydra.
there is no poison-tipped spear,
no angry torch to hold to my neck
i may not raze your fields nor eat your livestock
but i was born to destroy you.
when i smile i want you to think
not of wolves, but of girls
pretty girls, with flirtatious red lips
and teeth white as pearls
not of monsters who lurk
under grandmother's bed
swallowing children for supper.
i am no chimaera, no sphinx:
no hero can vanquish me on winged pegasus
i cannot breathe fire or deceive with words
(it's all appearances, everyone knows that.)
do not forget
it was helen who launched a thousand ships,
clytemnestra who slew agamemnon
judith who beheaded holofernes
because no one thinks that your lipstick
might be congealed blood,
nobody thinks that the points of your nails
might serve more than a decorative purpose
nobody stops to consider the nightshade in your perfume,
the foxglove flowers on the mantle
and the cyanide in your purse.
perhaps i don't look like a monster, but remember:
no one's an angel
Blue PillI've only ever followed
the path already sketched
out for me, but the blueprints
print blues to my forehead;
to my forearms. Cracking smiles
is as taboo to me as crack rocks.
I've tried crossing the River Styx
on my own, but I always
find myself getting drowned
by the Ferryman, as he tells me
that it's not the right time
that it's over for me yet.
So I take the blue pill
and a handful of advil
to ease into reality.
Play Me In CrescendoIt scares me that this could be
my last poem—
something more than a goodbye
but less than my soul;
a mere imprint
on half a white page
just begging to be read,
I haven’t even begun to grasp
the hintings of love,
its quirks & random tendencies
to be set aflame
when you look into the eyes
of someone staring back
It isn’t fair for fear
to house in the hollows
of your stomach,
because there’s so much more
that’s worth the good
you’re too shy to touch—
knowing you’ve been burned before.
So darling, don’t leave me roses
on my grave;
read to me,
in your happiest of voices,
poems and quotations
you’d give your heart for
SuspendedWinter has frozen her work now,
secret names shimmering, safe, anguished.
Lulled, we enter it like a rocking cradle,
the white, vaulted room
where frost settles into glass,
where we shrink with the noise of death
drawing itself across the snow,
packing up the wise, the sad, the beautiful.
Our hands are older than our eyes, some say.
Some say our memories are forgiven,
that we’ve come to a place
famous for absurdity,
but this is the part where we light the village farolitos,
like children accustomed to time travel and invisibility,
striking our matches in the dark.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made 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
the equation formerly known as 'us'integrating integrity into nano-christened circuits,
this is the difference between what you see
and what goes on, the anonymities between our arteries and
mitochondria: all the makeup of an atomic bomb,
bits of fire and reasons why we didn't stop
a level above consciousness,conclusion: is it sanctuary,
like the sound of self-destruction and cannon-made creation,
softer, slicker, a sunset in between your motherboard and the fifth dimension,
sounds like love or anarchy, (the computation makes it wonder:
is the difference?)
this is one definition tracked by linguists in the future: one,
two, not addition but simulation, emulsion, (fusing)
different atoms, different substance
ingratiated quarks and bearing down,
so tangled up the universe
doesn't know us now
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 earth
and 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.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,
your death wish
of maudlin words
stretched across this failing light.
I will not wear
new wings for you
that crimson you
were born with -
a mother's final wish
to keep out the winter
But I will wait,
the flaw and beauty
of your youth
painted across your palms
as you hold up
the moon to meet me.