My boyfriend broke up with me. A flood of poems to come.

Progress

I am making the final touches on my first, self-published poetry collection. It should be completed and for sale by August. I can't wait! Oh, and a preview...it is called "{Voices}"

The Psych Ward

Eyes shatter, shatter, shatter

Down the drain.

(I like threes)

The Blind Rose

Can a blind man touch a rose?

Oh surely, he can.

He must shyly climb his fingers

Up its stem.

Pull back, pull back, another trip

To come.

As time grows,

As he grows,

So do his trips to the rose.

He climbs and climbs so high,

Then he rests his fingers on

Satin, savory rose buds.

Oh yes, a blind man can touch a rose.

But then, you ask, how can

He worship such a flimsy, ironic blossom?

Well, every color has a smell.

We are stuck in small boxes

Of green, blue, yes, no.

What about the color of touch?

It exists, ignored by almost all

Except the blind man.

Oh yes, a blind man can worship a rose.

Can a blind man kill a rose?

Oh no, and neither can you.

For roses grow from human hearts

To kill a rose would be to kill oneself.

Can a blind man kill himself?

Definitely not.

Mortality is but a lie from a rock,

A very sly rock at that.

He screams death and we believe him

However he remains intact.

But there is a secret from

The rose that one can only feel.

You may see the rock's lie

And live to dance in circles

But the blind man just basks in the roses

Immortal, like all

The seeing scribblers.

 Cigarettes

Bang, bang, bang on the window glass

Come save me- I need cigarettes.

Everyone itches here

Nobody works here.

We are all broken toys

And they are the children,

Trying to put us back together

With Elmer's glue.

We are still broken.

We are still broken.

We are still broken.

Hop on a merry-go-round

Feed us meds, meds, meds

Tell your feelings to be quiet

Let us teach you how to die

But remember, it is quiet time.

Come save me- I need cigarettes.

Your paper degrees cannot win me sanity.

Questions and Answers

Hello?

Let's get rid of the age-old answers

To questions ad infinitum.

I'm alone

I'm alone.

I'm alone.

I can't find you.

I'm attached to your brain.

Someone needs a wash.

Yes, I'm sticky

Sticky

Sticky.

Could you spare a stick of glue?

Oh no, where is the formaldehyde?

Out of stock, the soul-less.

I keep it in my fingertips.

None to spare.

Convert the energy?

Oh, no.

I keep it to settle fights within you.

No control in glue.

More Beauty

THIS IS MY FUCKING MIND

I will break your pens

And stomp on your feet

And tear off the outer

Leaving you naked and powerless.

You have no control

With your empty words.

Now fuck off so I can get some rest.

Creative Overflow

I haven't written anything on here for a while but lately I have been on a poetry purge fest. Here goes:

Goodbye

(3x3x3)

Sweat falls down

No evaporation, but

No room inside.

She could go,

Make room together

Hide the screaming

But still cold

Is she forever,

Waiting for explosions.

Forgiveness

Transcend my love

That pusses out in the wild heat

But I am suspended

In a still sleep among breeze.

The water is gone, with

A lemon in its glass

Caught in the spill.

No food

No sleep

No time

Forgotten.

Forced Duality

(3x2x5)

My head shows me things

Some from the devil himself

Others as signs from heaven.

I'm a restrained, angry prophet

For no clear, tangible reason.

My only freedom is words.

Dichotomy Poems...

Richie

Our beautiful lies

Shot through with

A plane ticket

And empty "I love yous"

He screams rationality

While I fill our

Conversations with tears.

Why, Richie, why?

Our love was just a blip of time to you

At least based on my assumptions.

Why, Richie, why?

You are the only true love I have ever known

You had me at your stare

Cigarettes

Coffee

Mental Hospitals

But it must have been too little

To give you the strength

To face distance and time.

Why, Richie, why?

I love you vulnerably

No half-baked games

Or walls to stay safe.

You have my heart

But that must not be enough.

Why, Richie, why?

Richard

You live home safe

Yet I provide you refuge

But bombs left you

Rearranged and calloused.

Your next chapter seizes you

With dollar signs and supposed respect

It is time to go, Richard.

Our dances filled me with moments of love

Ones that I will always cherish

Through time.

Sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars

And sleepless nights

But we lost our capacity for memories.

It is time to go, Richard.

One by one is magic

But one will become eighteen

Look at those devils, webcam and half-apologetic

Conversations. They will only prolong the misery

Of a truth I already face.

It is time to go, Richard.

What we had

Will forever grip my heart.

But to continue

Is to suffer every moment.

This halt is far less painful

Than forced strings between us.

It is time to go, Richard.

Kitty (Richie with opposite nouns)

Our beautiful truths

Shot through with

A train ticket

And empty "I love mes"

She screams emotion

While he fills our

Silence with smiles.

Why, Kitty, why?

Our hate was just a span of space to me

At least based on my observations.

Why, Kitty, why?

I am the only true hate you have ever not met

I had you at my distracted eye

Gum

Tea

Mental homes.

But no one must have been too large

To give me the weakness

To face presence and space.

Why, Kitty, why?

You hate me confidently

No half-baked reality

Or openings to stay in danger.

I have your head

But this must be barren.

Why, Kitty, why?

Favorite quote if the day: "The bird sings with its fingers."

More to come...

The Daily Grind

Spin around in the largely small patterns. Our only hope is in quick freedoms from it- expression.

Sometimes I have to push through life to get a handful of precious jewels- ones that I will keep forever, even in heaven. Patterns just melt away like the tears of expectation.