The seven deadly sins of man
have just slaughtered a
mocking bird.

The sound of willow drums
                     & laughter at 1 a.m.

The Lion's sin of Pride
                   "Hail the poet within you."
The Dragon's sin of Wrath
                   "Your words forge death on the page."
The Snake's sin of Envy
                   "The clock counts more words than time does."
The Fox's sin of Greed
                   * "Crave the words as if they disgusted God."
The *Grizzly's sin of Sloth
                     *"Immortality flocks to your pen and paper."
The *Goat's sin of Lust
                     "Dress like a daydream or a nightmare to write with blood."
The Boar's sin of Gluttony
                      "Don't be afraid to **** to suffice your poems."

Oh poets,
for those of you who've figured
it's also a sin
to ****
a
mocking bird.

The secret is in the eighth deadly sin of poetry,
                                  Don't.
              ­                    Tell.
                                   Poets.
                                    What.
                ­                    To.
                                    ­Do.
.

Black shadows prowling,
Blood ******* ropes ready to latch on.
The monsters of the night growling,
Endless tragedy about to dawn.
They watch and wait,
Until you delve further into the darkness,
And meet your inescapable fate.
The deeper you go,
The more ropes of bitterness attach.
Gripping onto you so tightly,
they've become the new foe.
They're everywhere,
Drowning you in their web.
No nightmare could compare,
To all the horrible things they've said.
Scream and shout,
But no one will help.
Mourn and bleed,
From all the pain you've felt.
Stuck, helpless, hopeless,
Making you slowly deteriorate.
Tired, weak, lifeless,
Now it's officially too late.
The ropes have ****** all happiness,
Replacing it with grief.
Trapped in eternal darkness,
Just another dried out leaf.
Suffering in the hellish pit,
All alone, so lost.
Frozen from the bitter cold As you sit.
Will it ever be possible to defrost?
Sinister laughter, everywhere,
It fills your ears.
You know this factor, my dear,
They've been winning for years.
The breaking point has come,
Just can't take this pain.
Slowly reaching for the gun,
Youre no longer sane.
One click ends it all,
A bullet buried in the brain.
Smiling as you abruptly fall,
Terminating the ropes ****** up game.
The demons retreat,
Ravenous to cause another fatality.
They never admit defeat,
Life's ropes of evil and reality.

She -- the girl who I think;
was once upon a time--
in another lifetime;
a part of me

a piece
of my soul
ripped from myself
from a long ago death--

to be found
only to make me understand
that chaos and beauty
could co-exist;

that souls--
no matter how different;
will always find a way
to recognize each other.

Oh and how beautiful and sad
to know that we--
are made out of
broken things that heal us~

People say,
I should be over it.
"It was, like, a year ago. Stop being so afraid."
Don't you people see?
A year ago is all too close to me.
(and, for the record-- it's 11 months and 6 days)
How do you just 'get over' the loss of your peace of mind?
I sure as hell haven't figured it out.
I still see him
in my nightmares,
in the flashbacks.
Some people think I actually am over it.
But I know that I am not.
I flinch when others touch me without warning,
I cannot open the front door,
I'm unable to walk down the street.
I'm so hyper aware of what happened to me.
I swear, he is buried in my sheets.

So don't tell me to get over it.
Unless you can somehow tell me how.
  

                         (d.d.b)

.
He had ascending eyes
                   of sapphire,
the kind in which angels sloshed in their
royal chalices,
the kind of blue Poseidon gnashed
                       his teeth for.


                                   Born in the 25th dying date,
Septembers’ autumn bleached scent flows along
his bloodstream.


A smile that belonged in the crooks of these sapphire seas,
a soul unholy as Adam
                          & Eve’s.

His love was not fierce enough
             to contain this poet's heart
my pitiful phoenix can be ripped asunder
by the wrath of
a dandelion.


He couldn't swallow the sun
                 so silver fire rained
                                     anytime it pleased.

We are the skylines
             not gallows
and yet we hang ourselves upon the night skin


                       and collect
the stars as if they were
                            our alibis.

If you love me,
                        let me go?
                         My silver eyes don't see you in color anymore.
.