Today
is
a,
nihilistic
dawn.
Do not say,
you haven't been warned.
At the crack of sunlight,
dead of the night.

The cats come out to play.

Relentless,
little,
***** cats,
******* up my habitat.
Wide eyed,
wide awake,
for heavens sakes,
give me a break,
How much more,
can I take?

*I knew I should of bought a snake.

Our poems are fabrics

knit with the dreams inside
laid out in the open
so may a passing eye
grant a glance

a pausing mind
decides for a fleeting moment
to wear

thinking them their own.

As I stand here with hat flat brimmed
A nervous snicker mistook for a grin
Let the words fall out my mouth past my chin......
I won't  look past the spotlight there is only the dark
Like everyone's vehicles are in overdrive and mines stuck in park .....
It's the handful of prescription pills from someone else
A demon on my chest like you've never felt
A desperate anger that turned way before help
The reason I don't even recognize myself ......
It's been in me for a while it invaded my smile
Turned every forward step into a mile
Beat me up and made me feel like a child. ...
I dare not speak it's name... it turns into a label
Make the society look at me like I'm unstable
And the chance of success is pulled off the table
The enemy is within this clouded reflection
With too many faults I cannot mention
I lol when I hear people say it's all for attention
So with a fleeting glimpse into the hell full of tension ......
Depressed means finally not getting pushed down
Like deflated balloons belong with a clown
So before you go blast my name all over town....
I could be you... you could be me
Walk where I've been see what I see ......
Be truly alone with a room full of "friends"
Is it what makes you happy guess it depends .....
Depression has thousands  in its terrible army
At the end of the day it will only be myself that harms me.......

Unburdens the dusky river

dreams of flow dead in the bog of hyacinth
harvest burnt in the scorch of aridity
ripples robbed by the silt of dogma
sunbeam denied by the **** of creed

I was meant to reach the sea,
now I would never make it.

I pick the river's shattered pieces
with my own from the wintry dusk.

You couldn't believe
so quiet could be the croc
its eyes a wise sage
scales rigid rock

lay frozen on the mud
no flies could stir
stubbornly in trance
mind elsewhere

sixteen feet in size
dumb cool in creek
in the hermit's guise
lamblike tender meek

pounce it does when needs
not preys on what eats not
the human hunter feeds
on hatred and whole lot.

She doesn't recite poems in the darkish sunset

like golden corns dying to be reaped
she needs a hand to cut her through
reach to where a fleshless lust is still not ember.

Seasons come and fly away.

Her own poems withering
she pines for one simple nest
to rest.