words rhyme one with the other
like they were meant to be
just like you n me
like a plan from the start
starting from the stars
ending all the way between you n me
lets meet under a starry night
and speak in rhymes me n you
play with each other with words
and have conversations that would
be pleasant to the ear
I am that I am and I'm meant to be
this world this universe everything
it beholds is just you and me

Her eyes were like fire.
They weren't red or anything.
Not particularly warm, either.
They didn't glow or "appear to glow,"
whatever that means.

But they had that same strange blend of
familiar and miraculous---
and they were always nice to look at
after a long day of doing things.

I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.

I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.

I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.

I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.

I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.

I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.

Aches and pains hurting.
Family abandons us.
Disappointingly.

If my wife had known that
She was marrying a poet
And she'd be spending the rest of her life in rhyme

I think if she had known it
It would have sent her over the edge
Or at least pretty close to the line

Poets never show it
But we never seem to grow up
I'm sure that's some sort of sign

That what goes on in our heads
Is nothing but a big mess
As we're stuck in the warp of time

I'm not sure she would have done it
The marrying of a poet
Cause who but a poet wants a life marred in rhyme