old shit but still relevant

The unthinkable happened
my ipod died...

forcing me to face my own thoughts
and the thought of this terrifies me
no longer able to escape old heartbreaks
in new break beats
to run and hide from my social life
behind drums and kicks
no more running from the past
things happening in the present
and bound to happen tomorrow
if I'm left to deal with my thoughts
i might not make it to see tomorrow
for the thoughts in my mind
are filled not with laughs
but full of sorrow
thoughts of my isolation and mistakes ive made
keep getting played and played
over and over in my mind
now when i try to sleep depression and regret
usually drowned out by the sounds of my mp3
are not ignored
but stronger than ever and staring right back at me
i try and tune my radio to tune them out
but its too late they got me in a sleeper
and that's all i want to do now is sleep
but at times like this
my only true wish is to escape this cold grasp of my own thoughts
the only way i could think to escape was to not think
just do what comes naturally
and gradually
the pen found its ways into my hand

my mind is like a burning building
and poetry is my (broken) fire escape

hello hydra

like the heads of the hydra
romove one sense to strengthen the survived

so i will send you an ode along with my eyes
and sit in the dark awaiting your reply
come to me so i may not listen
for before you arive i will have beatean my ear drums out of commision
let me feel your voice
touch your words
and hold your intentions

alas i did not see the back of your head
nor hear the door open or close
but smelt the odoar of deception
and so bitter is the taste of loneliness
i plug my nose and swallowed my tounge

like the heads of a hydra remove one
and strengthen those that survive
and so with all my being i felt pain.

just(us)

In between a gift and a burden you were presented with the present
you only asked for life and yet the world was forced upon your shoulders
before you could even organize your own thoughts
they were thinking for you
your opinion is non existent
you talk to hands that hit not listen
you are not heard
but how could you be
you haven’t yet spoken your first word
affection and abuse divided by a blurred line
the hand of a so-called lover comes darting out of a slurred line
so you replicate this type of affection
because that’s all you know.
that’s all WE know.
us.
the outkasts
Us.
the ones left behind
Us.
going nowhere with no were to go
us
the unwanted children


in between a gift and a burden we were presented with this fucked up present
I don’t know about you
but I don’t remember asking to be born
yet here we are with the world forced upon us
before we could even organize our own thoughts
they were thinking for us
our opinions are non-existent
we talk to hands that hit, not listen
we are never heard
how could we be
we are merely children yet to speak our first words.
they say the present is a gift
I just hope it came with a receipt

Fuck

relationships.

fin

i dont like this

hair of aphrodite
skin of nefertidi
eyes of madusa
thinking harder than plato
of ways i can seduce ya

composed by things of legend
your mythology is calling me
my Alalahe

her beauty is terrifying.

A Girl i saw in the laundry mat

i wonder
i wonder what she looks like with no make up on
what is she all about in the morning hours
is she still a sight to see
is she still with a demeanor so sweet
will she have the same eyes
or will they fade without being highlighted in turquoise
how long is her hair should she let it hang
is the back of her neck as soft as it appears
what changes will come to this canvas with the addition of tears
is it all a facade
is she of dreams
or of nightmares.

Ca ne fait rien

Im tired of saying im a poet,
And getting weird ass looks
I tell them I write poems
And they give me the dookie face
You know that face you make when you smell shit
Its like once I tell them im a poet they immediately imagine me half naked
In some forest
Dancing around trees like some woodland fairy
While writing poems about how green the leaves are
Its like I immediately get tagged as soft
Sensitive
Emotional
Weird
Which are in no way,
False
I am all of those things
And if you bust into my bedroom on any given Monday
you will most likely See me dancing around like a woodland fairy
Yes I am a poet!

soul

Out of the trumpet comes no music
Out of his trumpet comes his soul

He is unemployed he
lives to play
Plays to live
He plays to pay the light bill
When times are slow
And the bulbs don’t glow
He fumbles around in the dark
crawls into the corner
holding his heart
He plays his soul

His wife left
She said she needed a lifestyle
He was not providing
It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying
He never cheated
He wasn’t lying
Yet his loneliness
Is striving
His relationships
were dying
So as she walked out
He crawled to the corner of his apartment
Holding his heart
And out of the trumpet came no music
Out of his trumpet leaked his soul

A loud knock at the door
He sees through the peep hole
His land lord
Get your stuff and go
Leave before the clock slaps 12
But were do I go ?
Land lord tells him go to hell
And take that trumpet with you
We are all tired of the noise
And so he crawls to the edge of the bus stop
Holding hi heart
Out of the trumpet comes no alleged noise
Out of the trumpet comes no music
For all to hear
From his trumpet he presents his soul

when it rains
He shelters his heart in his jacket
Bundled up like his child
Yet the trumpet begins to rust

Always at the bus stop
Never on the bus
He waits
He waits for his ride home
And for now, he holds his rusty instrement
It may sound like just an old trumpet
But from his rusty heart pours is soul.

the way she moved..

... was beyond words.
which makes my job very hard, but i got to at least try..


rainfall footsteps
soft and explosive
droping with ferocity.

a face of stone
colored by pedals of flowers
concentration that could stand up to diamond cuts.

twists rolls pops
with intentions to hypnotize
seduce and paralyze.

engineers, the human body thier tools
turning years of evolution unto warm molding clay
muscle and bone presented as raw art.

i saw this girl in ross the other day...

Soft square shoulders
delicate blades
inticing ink

a quiet end

once upon a time
i was a slave to the minimum wage
i needed books for school
my budget couldn't afford a page
a gun in one hand
a uniform in the other
i would be lying to say
it would be hard to stray
to call in sick
and get money the ski mask way
be another stick up kid on the street
the nightmare of America
her own children
born in the mud beneath her feet
alas i punch in and slaved away
yet another day
aging a year every day
my hands raw
coming home with new burns
and old problems
and under my mattress
a new way to solve them
it calls to me while i sleep
intriguing how 5 pounds of steel
could change my tax bracket
without fail
i shake away its hold
and sell my self to a franchise
to sell french fries to the obese
when i know a vacant fridge awaits
but i know what can make it cease
no more clocking in
no more peace
the night comes as my cover
out to pray on dreams
a target
a quick plan
blue lights
red lights
a failed robbery
a vision of a cell
hell in the rear view mirror
the shedding of fear
a screaming bullet
a quiet end