my girlfriend would wear baggy jeans – being my solitude, as a
faithful lover. it’s just the darkness she has in her genes. sometimes
I cut her fingernails, to stop her from biting them – she starts to bite
me instead. my sad stories are all reflected in her tears; she tried to
cut my hair, and cut right deep into my thoughts – I’m always
thinking out loud.

she sits on my lap, just to have a window seat; her hair is like a
forest, that the comb loses it’s teeth. still my fingers run through
the woods; dark as a night, where my eyes become her moon.

and she’s the wettest dream – a real sensual thing; being like a
water Queen. she knows I can't water down my words, or kiss her
less without our spit. “kiss me before we go” – even if we’re just
going to the corner store.

but that’s just the thing; I’m in the market for finding hope in
my dreams – for this person only exists in my dreams. sigh!

Oh bread crumbs;

The birds have eaten up my path
Their sky has swallowed up my past,
They love to quickly spit it all out

As I shared the deepest parts of myself
With people that held no trust, or love –
Now my past is all they speak about

Now that's foul.

The empty space in my head tries to dream again
When faith starts to be my friend again
Oh, I’m not the same – a careless friend

The empty space in my heart tries to love again
When the feeling of love can be felt again
Oh, I’m not the same – a heartless mate

The empty space in my hand tries to feel again
When I lost a touch with myself again
Oh, I’m not the same – a hopeless mess

These empty stars will find me once again –
As my body rests on these foreign lands
I love to sleep on this Island bed.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Greetings, O Death, why do you not approach? You are aware of my
depression, and we both recognize I’m such a mess; speaking from
my chest, while my heart is shielded by a metaphorical bulletproof
vest. I am shattered in this tomb-like gloom; those funeral regrets of
not having the power to decide if I’ll be dressed at my level of best.
The residue of sorrow clings to my breath, like coal dust – as every
train of thought rides the tracks of my morbid dreams of death.

But do you know the sound of pain – those around me seem so deaf,
even as I look like a piece of parched land; my eyes are a dry red -
I have no real tears left.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Hey there, can you hear me now? These words may seem utterly
absurd, yet I strive to have my voice heard, like a solitary soul lost
among the herd. But maybe a gun to the head can make me seem so
heard – you know I’m just so hurt. Your silence lingers, and in this
suffocating darkness, that once-bright flame of passion feels so burnt.
I find myself devoid of tears, breath, or any glimmer of hope, and
though I rarely swear, I feel as if I am under a curse.

Lately, my inner demons have become my closest equals; my friends
feel more like other people– and this is the hardest part of my life,
that death seems so simple.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

In the spaces between my breaths, there’s heavy pauses; as I give out
a lot of fake poses. Here I stand, at the intersection of my loneliness,
waiting for you, in hand – a bunch of roses. I’ve had to force myself to
accept these ungodly forces – trying to worship, even as I view my
existence as a sea full of war ships.

But maybe you shouldn’t call my line – when I’m hanging with
family, that have me feeling like hanging myself; it was a folly,
pretending to them that I was always fine.

Until we cross paths again someday. Bye!

Does a thick woman ever feel her patience wearing thin, while
her man wears a beard, ready to take her every mood by the chin?
He’s dating a girl named Erin, who hates it when he cuts his hair,
and runs errands. She made him ink a tattoo on his neck, declaring,
“property of Erin’s,” then she decided to shave her head, but she's
now wearing a wig— a real bold choice. While her man is plagued
by countless voices, but he himself, doesn’t have much of a voice.

She swiftly cleans up her act for the public eye – she's a minute maid,
with a juicy figure that could turn any man to pulp; and she’s also
self-made. And he’s like an empire of ants, bearing more than his
own weight. But he’s not much of a saint, his mischief thrives when
she’s far away, and it can never wait. He keeps a side piece as a
thought to chew on, always clearing off his plate.

They picture a relationship, but lack the means to truly relate –
just a ship; claiming they’re on the same boat; being each other’s
bait. “Plenty of fish in the sea,” but they leave hooks in one another,
after they hook up. Never pausing to Google for their worth; it’s right
there, just look up– to the writing on the wall. "We’re all crumbling
on each other"; if these walls could speak. As countless feet trample
on each other’s toes, in these crowded streets of Love, we seek.

Paved in toxicity – a toxic city, where toxic lovers inhale toxic fumes.
Easily fuming when being called out; the headlines of these daily
romances, all spell bad news.