Middle-class, educated, better than all of you. The poet
whines that the people he said were his friends
were his friends. Too eager to stick it to the man, his sentences end
where he pleases.

Not understanding, as his peers are hurt when insulted,
he blames the age to which he was born
of his troubles. He should have been born in the fifties.
Absolutely nothing was wrong with the fifties.

Love is not a safe place. It is not the taste of their name
coughed by the cancerous lung, drowning in overused metaphors.
A lover is not a tool, to take you in and give you everything
they have, to spew a 'better' person next year.

Death is not the endless peace, nor the bliss,
nor the torture nor infinite void. It is the end, no matter
how artistically short you write each line,
and none of it mattered.

Our world it bleeds
Anonymous faces are screaming
Cynicism grows like a tumor on our hearts
Our lives are constructed around our fears
We can't let our twisted Earth rule us
We can return the light to this world
Believe
Believe in yourself
Believe in others
And be free
Together we can take back our freedom
We need not be afraid

Maybe now, that limelight you seek

is not as glamorous as you once thought.

Nostalgia replaced with a shield of infamy,

infamy that doubles as shield and sword.

Your eyes grow green with beautiful

unrighteous envy, obvious jealousy.

You’d strike down your best friend to

glow like citric, pour out like acid.

I’m not sure if I know you from somewhere anymore.

I’m not sure if we’ve passed each other in bright lights,

or in dark rooms, or daylight, or barlight, or held hands

or narrowly escaped a world trying to pump us full

of *******. Now you’re just mean in spirit, as a cliche.

You’re Charlie Sheen by way of Kim Kardashian,

You’re plastic by way of cellophane.

If it’s hurts it’s only because I try as hard as you,

it hurts only because this time, I want it to.