I want to write a masterpiece,
that puts my ego and drive to peace,
I want to make something that gets the masses to stammer and quake,
feeling oot the true humanity and delivering nothing fake,
something to make them feel love and heartache,
to give them a rise,
by building them up with beautiful lies,
and tearing them down at their peak,
making their own head and heart something deep inside,
they have to seek,
but brick by brick I'll build them back up to my side,
they will feel consciousness spread across the great divide,
when I do this master work,
I'll give them each a piece of my soul to lend,
and then the poem will end.

I have to close this chapter in the book,
it doesnt matter how it will read or how it will look,
because even the worst memories get brighter,
as age gets dimmer like a dying lighter,
right meow it will be looked at as a year for hate,
a year to commiserate,
maybe a year to accept the growth in me,
or a time I was most free,
it was a year for love,
or maybe it was just all of the above,
but that's every year I suppose,
just like every poet rhymes,
and has pros,
every year makes me happy,
and every year makes me feel down in the dumps,
its a just a game,
"Of streaks and slumps"
so here's to the next year
of happiness and fear,
love and anger,
thrashing and quiet,
raises up glass to my friends I have and havnt met yet
Lets all make a bet,
to be have good days and bad,
so that next New Years,
there will be something to be a had

More I write,
aboot her,
it might make her real.

I saw her in an open field,
a stick sword I saw her wield,
screaming and waving the stick around,
but there was no sound,
just a rustling of leaves in the wind,
that's when her eyes shot like a pin,
at mine,
and she smiled so shyly, so fine,
I was awkward and fell when I started towards her,
the wind stopped and electricity started to stir,
I asked her if we could someday be in love in French,
she smiled shyly again and punched my arm,
and called me a maiden *****,
I picked up a stick and told her to duel,
for the fire was getting fuel,
she threw down her stick,
and I went for a kiss but my nose she decided to lick,
staring with an awkward smile she pushed my cheeks,
and kissed me as I could feel my heart peaks,
awkward and my hand started to sweat,
I awoke with the feeling of winning a bet,
I will wait till tonight,
because you may not be real or in sight,
but that just means I havnt met you yet.

I guess this was needed,
to get over feeling defeated,
and start the rebuilding,
might change my mind tomorrow,
but today I am smiling through the sorrow,
and realizing I had gold,
that everyone was telling me, including the jewler, that it was fools,
that I should fold,
I walked around with you in my pocket and in my head,
always remembering the kindly evil words you said,
evil now because they its me they haunt,
but kindly because its the words I want,
I would  have asked for another dance,
but its too late and the band has left and were no longer in the right stance,
we dont even talk and thats fine,
because I can walk around with my memories,
and know you were once mine,
but I threw the gold in the river bed,
and both our phones are dead,
I'll smile for today,
and I'll smile towards yesterday's way,
ask me tomorrow night if I am fine,
I'll tell you to it was a journey and not a line,
we all have to reach the end point some before some,
I'll take a step towards the left,
and follow a second rising sun.

I first met God when from me he bummed a cigarette,
I asked him how I can win this bet,
and to let go of her and be ok,
he asked which girl with a smile in a way,
I said all of them because I just want to hear all of them say,
you were alright,
he took a drag and said we had met before,
when I was again in Florida I was feeling this down and poor,
we had a drink,
you asked what this life was all about,
and with a smile with shades of a pout,
I told you that only you could figure that out,
his cigarette was done and so was mine,
I asked again if this was just a waiting line,
or just a road covered with dust,
he flicked it and said that I always will have my lust,
for the future,
for the present,
for the past,
and I may feel like in the line I am last,
but really there is no line or road,
and this isnt a secret code,
he said I was ok,
then asked for another cigarette.

Staring at empty screens and pages,
I must have read this ******* sentence through multiple ages,
but my mind drifts away,
they used to call me Holden,
I dont have half a head of grey hair I would say,
jumbled in my jaw,
and feeling bare and raw,
I need to do something aboot this,
but why cant I just attain a certain degree of bliss?
Is it because I want my life to be a sad poem,
at least that's what she said on the phone,
maybe she was right?
I'm in love with being a tragedy at the end of the night,
need a reason to be in my room,
to shake this feeling I might have till I am dead,
then I noticed,
I forgot to make my bed.