Such beauty,
But empty...
Such pity,
Little missy.

A fake diamond.
So pretty...
So shiny!
But all synthetic...

Suddenly, from a distant past,
my eyes flash with recollection:
I've been here before --
Not to say another life, but,
another moment in time.

How do I defeat the enemy,
when the pattern -- mistake,
ownership, and growth --
keeps repeating?

Do I keep emulating
this useless thing,
when the distance I see,
or at least seek, shows
no signs of an enemy?

***** nilly sillies
point flagrantly
at every happy clown,
wagging finger, dismayed,
sending to wind "For shame"s.

Historians have always known,
you could always leap frog
the copy/pasted placement
of seasons as if to say
we're changing.

One person's happiness
is the next one's disaster.

Think other thoughts.
You're a master.

Everyone beautiful is eventually meant to fall,
So I’ll just stick to being an abnormal oddball,
Won’t see me played out on piano keys,
Or executed, on my knees.
Because I’m not beautiful, I’m just me…
So what can a peon like that, ever truly be?

When I was a child, I wished to be famous,
And actually have the patience to deal with every ignoramus,
That walked up, and questioned, who the hell I was,
Without pointing a gun, and yelling “Was-sup, ***?”.
But that's just me.

Putting, pen to paper, is so **** difficult,
But writing your first anything makes you feel like you joined a cult!
Higher power, soon enough you might get your platinum card.
But if come out alive, you’ll be battle-scarred.

So what is it then? Ms. Left or Right?
Can you be happy in darkness, or do you need a little light?
Is insanity intelligence, just an unexplored part of the brain?
Or for for simply saying that, am I myself insane?
Is life as i see it, just a silly child’s game?
I don't know.

Putting pen to paper is so **** difficult,
But writing is beautiful, and now you understand the cult,
So cry not my child, I will protect you through the night.
And when day hits, we shan’t exist, but i will still hold your hand.

I feel so inconsistent, why does the page stare at me with such distaste?
I'm sorry, lately I've been different, distant, I don’t want to leave a mark on its face.
I'm hearing thing, your silence. Your still stuck in the choir.
Choir of oh so similar voices, that sing of the burning of the pyre!
And i swear i need some kind of medication, for the pain.
That doesn’t even exist, half the time, like when it rains.
It’s so quiet, and i'm found, flying on Nefarious Wings.
And your choir of voices sings, yes it does.

Alarm ringing, maybe that should be my inspiration,
Because it’s so hard to find something in this generation.
Lotta lackey’s, giving other kids flack.
I gave up on these loser, might as well call me a quack.
Because, pretend to know em, through and through.
Truth is, I know a million other kiddies just like you.
That walk like you, talk like you. They might as well just be you.
It’s OK that your confused. What I'm saying is that you need a break through.

Putting, pen to paper, is so **** difficult,
But you’ve written your life away, say bye bye to the cult!
You thought we were the realist there were ever gonna be.
But now your like Biggie, lying dead up on the streets.

And all your old so called friends, they laugh at ya,
How did ya die, who even knows, probably lynch law!
Because this industry more viscous than a ******* honey badger,  
And you weren’t **** yet to be talking how ya did, just an adder.
It’s like the old saying, “Ain't over till the fat man sings…”
Song sang, ya done, now lifting you to hell, on Nefarious Wings!

Piles and piles of garbage
Everywhere
In my room
In my brain
Clutter
In my mind
I'm too busy sitting in it
To do any spring cleaning

The small hands of a child
Are innocent
Reaching for fake animals
Or candy bars.
But his mother
Says he shouldn’t have been here
His father
Never kisses him.
He has nothing to reach for.
A child can be born without innocence.
Small hands can do more
Than reach for fake animals
Or candy bars.
A tiny killer, he is.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
forgotten between stars,
abandoned by their creator,
who probably didn't even exist;
a poet is born.
They care not much for their life
for they've seen through it, they know.
Not different from their peers,
not new in their painful world,
sometimes garbage, sometimes a flower,
maybe forgotten, maybe a star,
certainly a creator.
They know and are known,
they love and are loved,
they hate and are hated.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a totem is erected, its life decided,
it's grow is determined, forever.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
between the poet and the totem
a poem falls and makes a soundless noise.
Dutiful in its love and hate,
it loves the totem and hates the poet.
It moves, unmoved and unmoving,
away from the poet to the totem,
it races towards an unseen goal line.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a photo is taken,
an image of a poet, a totem, a poem.
Something calls your attention
you look at it, and they are gone.