And I Wish That

this poem's my best ever, in my opinion.. Not to sound egotistical, but I dont' know how I could've possibly produced such a thing... Please add it to your deviant art favorites

An early morning on the seventeenth of June,
A letter laced with tears, remember to stay cool,
And I wish that I could always be true,
And I wish that I’d always be with you,

I take a shower, put on shirt and tie,
Black’s your favorite color, I don’t know quite why,
I slowly walk to your new house, a stroll down memory lane,
‘father lets me in, but it doesn’t ease my pain,
And I wish that I could always be true,
And I wish that I’d always be with you,

I say a couple words, still fumbling,
I bought a bunch of roses, for nothing,
I see you lying there asleep,
I can’t believe you’d forget me,

As we walk out the door,
You climb up on my shoulder,
You feel heavier somehow,
I wipe the beads of sweat from my brow,

I cry a rain of tears as they lay you in the ground,
I lay the bunch of roses on your new bed,
I know I’ll join you soon, as I put the gun to my head,

The Update

What I've been doing with myself:
1.) Studying
2.) Tides of Blood (www.tidesofblood.com)
3.) Naps
4.) Camping for sporting events
5.) Weight Lifting

Some Poetry
The best poetry comes out of pain and torture.
This poetry doesn't come from that.
I'm not nearly that inspired.
I'm really tired.
Walking down on a crisp, cool autumn afternoon,
gets the blood flowing,
but then I hack up the blood of the unimpressive sort,
a gently intoxicating white haze that fills the air, the lungs, the nose,
sweet, yet oh so deadly.

I'm really off my game today.
My back quivers suddenly,
sharp like a hockey skate,
stopping, suddenly, with a crack,
and the snow flies in your face,
and it feels oh so cool on your cherry-red-cheeks,

back to contemplating all the wrongs in this world,
the little ant cannot bear despite all his strength and perseverance,
don't get crushed by the weight of the world,
don't let your soul become unspun in the tearings of the night,
threadbare as you may be, believe that you are the finest tapestry,
bathed in blood and soaked in tears,
the product of a million years,
it's not so much that I'm angry at the world,
just those with the blood on their hands.

Make Up Your Own Ending

Make up your own ending,
mine wasn't sufficiently gory or romantic,
to capture the attention that you craved incessantly,

a minor addiction,
infatuation,
lead to dereliction, solved by erudition
the saturation of my clothes in a mid-October rain

when the leaves coming down
howl in lonely sheets of pain,

the day dies in a deep auburn throb,
if I turn around, I think I catch a glimpse of you,
sobbing,

and a wave of horror,
flows through my core,
the arrow impales with such beautiful gore,

Some Poetry
The Fundamental is not the Univeral

Lots of people write poetry to tell stories
about war, death, pain love, heartbreak, anguish,
entrapment, violence, and love some more.

I do too.

The fact of the matter is that my fundamental elemental,
my self-conviction,
is like lead weighing on the scales of my soul,
so confident in the heft of my own opinion,
I produce a finely wielded rapier - parry
jab, slice;

because of the fundamental rule
I'm different somehow.
but how.
composed of experience,
sanctified by the small amount of pain I call torture,
I can preach to the masses,
I'm holier than thou.
and thou best not forget it.
because thine's time is nein.

How combustible is your reality?

leaning on the crutch of a catcher's mit,
it's the bottom of the ninth,
a small bit of rosin clings like sweat on an aluminum soda can,
pages of a calendar fly by,
the airport is closed for repairs,
but everyone else's flights keep connecting,
and I don't get offered an option on the bump or a voucher,
because I'd take it.

shoeboxes filled with baseball cards,
are the remnants of a happier childhood,
full of absolutes; devoid of composites;
black, white, and oreo, without the new flavors,
sure, they taste good, but your palette gets spoiled,
by the massive variety of impropriety,
trying to make decisions about sobriety, society, and piety,

religion hates, people kill,
devoid of meaning, a river without a heart,
I crease the wornout bill of my hat,
that clings to be, like water and sheets of celophane encapsulated,
drops of dew that trapt crea (na) tivity

rife with allusions, a peremptory
permutation flying with wings made of hatchets
killing scores, knee deep in a sky of sangrine,
rife with slashes; a life of slices
that's so priceless; it's trite, and emaciated.

Grasping at an illusory paintbrush,
on a canvas that dissolves into invisiblity,
fleeting words, unknown verses,
cryptic songs, and ancient curses,
a fundmaental arrogance expressed by self-knowledge rather than egoism,
everything dissolves into platitutdes and truisms