Time is like water, for it’s always there.
It can slip through your fingers,
Or just into air.
In some places it's dense.
In others it's thin.
Not sure where it ends,
Or where it begins.
Sometimes it's nice.
Sometimes it *****.
You can have too little.
You can have too much.
Waters like time,
And time is like water,
The colder it is,
Both start to get harder.
And I’ll let you continue this rhyme:
How time is like water,
And water’s like time.

I am built like city blocks
crooked and running in all directions.
My veins run up and down like busy streets,
lit by headlights and street lamps.
My scars are like demolished buildings,
a reminder of something that once was.  
I have a skyscraper mind that
reaches higher than anything else.
My heart is a monument that many see
but don't really know.
My thoughts are subways and buses that
move everywhere all at once.
There is no stopping- only a hushed hurry.
I am hard and concrete, my sidewalks are stained;
but to some, I am home.
I have hidden secrets inside, that you only know once
you decide to stay in the city
and choose to love me.

Like trees without leaves
you are so empty and bare
oh my aching heart

Miss that dog
Like the sky misses the stars
I said I miss the dog
Like the sky misses the stars
I miss petting her in the morning
And saying
“Good morning Mac”

School is like a prison.
not in the traditional sense,

Students must do as the warden says,
completing work or receiving a penalty,
act a certain way or be punished.

And if they don't complete their sentence,
they are doomed to a life that could be better

-a mind is well deciphered in silence as same as fingers decipher wetness of a ****.-

- how silently, silence enters my mind as same as his hand enters a wet ***** covering a pulsating **** -

Flying by the seat of my pants.
Writing and typing a glorious dance.
Loving and living in lines on a page.
Happy and saddened and uncontrolled rage.

Writing with no message.
Breathing life where oughtn't be.
Just typing and writing by the seat of my pants.
Waltzing about without music to dance.

I love when the sun paints a golden hue on everything before it
disappears
into the obsidian night.
Its rays are like an artist's brush,
delicately covering the world's canvas with luminosity.
When its glow eventually fades, and the stars barely light up the sky,
it's like an artist shutting off the studio lights
after a long day's work.
Temporarily departed, but soon to return
to paint the canvas with incandescent light
once again.

everyone is dead when i'm alive..
and alive when i'm dead.