Forced writing is meaningless
I have become a generic writer just typing out regurgitated words of others
My writing is worthless when it is not raw and true
I am attempting to be something I am not
This is not my heart and soul
My head is spinning but nothing is coming out
If I used to be able to write I cannot anymore for my heart is full but my pen has run dry

Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.

You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.

You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.

Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.

A photograph
pries a velvet kaleidoscope
from living

like flesh parting bone
ripped and torn
by the ravenous jaws of a great lioness

it snaps a fluid stream
with no beginning
no end

it chops to a point
which cannot flutter
because it has no wings

it is only an end
less than ephemeral
meaningless

I once knew a girl, a very stranger girl so opulent
Who said she'd do anything if I showered her in compliments  
She told me to bow, and that now she was my queen
She said the key was to talk sweetly, say things I didn't mean
I lied in the bed, enjoying the moment, no words were spoken
A few hours of that then she said, "take me home"
She said she'd see me again if fate allowed
She told me to tell her she was pretty, I laughed out loud
Now, she has a man, her number one fan on demand
Empty, meaningless words just for her and her lack of confidence

How can we live in a society that lies and manipulates
And endorses wars over a man in the sky?
How can we stand idly by whilst others run terrified through streets
That bleed with the essence of a tortured soul?
We have our lives handed to us on a silver platter
Whilst others can barely salvage morsels enough that, even when bonded together with all the dregs of an exhausted heart,
Barely manage to sustain a child.

Perhaps because it's easier to look at the moon as a smudge in the sky,
Softened by sheets the same as the indifference that clouds our mind and allows us to stare uncaringly ahead,
Not thinking of the panic stricken eyes that stare at the exact same moon as pandemonium courses through their streets.

How are we meant to clear the prejudices that have settled, cloying in our minds
Like the early autumn mist?
The gnarled fingers of hate hold us so tightly that our vision is
Blackened around the edges and we cannot see what lurks on the fringes of society.

The questions swim around aimlessly,
Fish darting across a tabloid, printed scales screaming for recognition.
But what is a question without an answer?
Meaningless.
Just like the corpses littered as morbid confetti,
Carnage celebrating the scarlet essence of man spilled in vain.

Lay my mirth to rest
At the foot of my grave
I think it died the same day
I lost my face

Who the **** even knows me?
Who the **** even cares?