Another week ends,

Another weekend begins.

Another weak soul condemns, men.

Drinks ten, to twenty.

Sniffs plenty.

Heavy heart, undone by sin.

Harsh roots, undone by men.

Not the condemned.

The easier men.

The ones he sees on his TV screen.

Insults behind the phone screen.

'Fuck them? It's about ours!'

He screams, at large.

Roaming his town

Man down, man down!

Another dustbin feels his wrath.

Another drunk girl crosses his path.

It's all just a laugh?

He doesn't mean any harm.

It's not his fault the politicians don't care about him.

It's not his fault his parents didn't care about him.

It's not his fault his girlfriends never cared about him.

It's not his fault all his friends left him.

'Fuck them. It's about ours'.

He cries, whilst he laughs.

Bipolar double vision.

Head on collision.

Social media has his back.

'Can't believe what happened to Jack.'

'Lovely bloke.'

'Wish we spoke, more.'

Church packed.

Plenty of pats on the backs of Jack's new friends.

There after the end.

When he never needed them.

But he's there for them.

An excuse to get high.

A reason to cry.

A reminder that they'll all die.

The next week... then,

Death hides not their pain, again.

Back to hate unleashed.

Re-target those, the ones that don't look the same.

Focus there their rage.

This life, needs an enemy.

This life needs death.

Brazen Men rot in a Bastille

Virulent

Venom seethes through

Vitiolic

Veins

Leaking down under without

A seal

Lacking

Mundane

Conformity standards

Living unanchored

Insane

I miss the way you kiss,

And the way you used to smile,

And pull me in a little tighter

When I'd ask to stay a while.

I miss the way you laugh,

When I trip over my own feet,

Or the way you'd sweep me up,

Carrying me out into the street.

I miss the way you saw me,

So careless and creative,

The look of a woman who loves a man,

And barely tries to save him.

I miss the way you loved me.

And for that I have no rhyme.

We always had our reasons,

But we ran out of time.

I started writing poetry in about second grade. Everyone knows how that is taught: rhyme as much as you can. I did a pretty good job off of it as well. My brain was just sort of wired to rhyme as times, I guess. On top of that, I am not the best at breaking habits, so that is still how I write-only less childish I hope. I also used to write songs, and even though they didn't HAVE to rhyme, they sounded catchier. Same goes with poetry. Think about it; when you are trying to remember something, what do you do? Most of the time, we make up rhymes. I want people to remember my words, so that is why I rhyme.

They weep with a collective moan

For humanity taking possession

Of blessings granted in freedom 

For the thunder will begin to strike

At half past the new moon 

As the wrath of disappointment reigns

Awakening truth is those sleeping

But except for those deceased

Growing weary in their pain 

For the forgotten is the beginning 

An ever-being returning again

Until the fires erupt hellaciously 

And the barren will sprout again

A new life found in the garden

My skin is not my own

I cannot find my way

and though I wear it so

it fits too tight one way

I cannot breathe inside this

a naked pallet I

I wish to God I'd bind this

till truth as me would fly

I'd tear away the empty

the plain bark locks of bleh

and then I'd look to empty

the negative thoughts "meh"

Please don't be shocked its only me

after the lightening struck

but I have never been more myself

its time to run amuck

I am not the mask of makeup I wear

I am not the style of my hair 

I am not that voice whispering to end it here.

I am the choices that I make 

The hearts that I break 

The things that cause my hands to shake.

I am the words that I speak

The whispers of the trees

The sound of falling leaves.

I am the music I sing when I'm alone

The words I share with only my phone

The pain I felt with every broken bone.

I am each freckle and scar upon my skin 

The love I carry deep within 

The joy I feel when I'm with him.

I am the places I've been to

The people I thought I knew

The feeling I get when I'm laying next to you.

I am the weight on my shoulders

My faded band shirts getting older

That feeling when your heart grows colder.

You see, I am not what they believe me to be

I am not my own worse enemy 

I am not the pain that eats at me.

Because every day, I get out of bed

When I could just give up instead

And though I may get wrapped up in my head

I am still here

;

Your lips taste like deceit

Laced cold beneath the moonbeams.

My lips, wine stained red,

Taste like despair and broken dreams

As I ask through slurred words,

"Is this our goodbye?"

And your silence speaks louder

Than any glorified lie.

Sweet breeze wafting

From the past

Swirling into the

Present

To awaken

Distant dreams

My muse awaits

The dawn

To begin building

That which will then

Become forever

True

One of the best ways to cope with the summer breeze:

don't think about it. Ignore them annoying bees that

buzz around, fat bodies going

when they really shouldn't, they're too heavy. I'm unknowing

of those bright, teenage smiles that light up the sky

at night, slamming bumper cars and kareoke while high

those naive feelings that one should love--

those warm, cleansing showers that suicide from the clouds above;

those cheap dinner dates and catching feelings in the shade

those long car trips that I usually crave and those

rushed, flighty feelings that come with a first kiss

experiences that I know that I will truly miss

when everything fades now in this dark house and picnic ants

turning over, belly-up, when our little hearts can't

take anymore of those cushy hugs and sad songs

dozing off in the background like "You're dying;" my heart longs

to be with you, down the avenue at the bus station

run away with me, I feel awfully impatient

I can't deal with these words: "Alone... Depressed,"

this summertime sadness that constantly goes suppressed

and suffocated by forced smiles at the Fourth of July cook-out

maybe its the way that God tries to shout out those

unshed tears, the dam is ready to burst--

you should know those snapped 

heartstrings over late texts are hard to nurse.