Man in the mirror,

Who is it that you are?

It feels no matter where I go,

You are never far.

I understand you mirror man,

For you are similarly coy,

You are not an object to played,

You are not a toy.

Mirror man everyone can see,

Nobody can seem to avoid you,

Why don’t you like it?

You can’t just be let be.

You enjoy it mirror man,

You grow so fond so quick,

You can’t seem to leave others,

Pra...

It’s over, I remember thinking

My darling Katie’s wrists are worn,

A bone poking from behind the stubborn skin

Tired of writing the words,

A thought down, and she was gone for an hour

Scribbling all kinds of nonsense

I’d never seen her write about her own.

Always a word about will,

A word about a thought she swore

To slit her throat before spelling aloud,

A word in the morning about

a dream sh...

I am the treasure

I am the flower

I am the delicate rose

The beauty amidst the nothingness

Covered and disclosed

The rose itself as many thorns

Thorns to keep her safe

To protect her from the savage desert

Haunted, she hides her face

Who knows, who knows, who knows?

That the treasure is a rose

The rose, she hoped and prayed one day her value would be exposed

She will never fo...

girl with a diary, led by the moon,

profits from pain, will make you swoon.

everyone knows her, or so they think,

she memorializes her life in lyrical ink

ambition, talent, intellect, looks,

crossing bridges, baiting hooks

destined to be loved, cursed to be hated,

known for her records and who she’s dated

woman of influence, voice of our time…

WHERE THE HECK IS REP TV...

Concerning the ranger;

he is both wild and careful.

The very woods he was hewn from, shake with magic — but he was not a craft of nature; he did not profess to control it either.

This striding stranger is the very essence of meekness, but not in sadness, in the choice to quiet down all of his tragedy even though he should not; the choice to stay silent though he is prone to be defiant and unconv...

I write poems every where i go

but I don’t consider myself a poet

I am not quite good enough for that

I wrote my first poem class

I wrote the next on an app

I wrote in books

And just now I am writing from the shower floor

I can write anywhere

ai can write here or there

Give me a paper and a pen

And let the magic begin

Words flow from my brain

through my body

merge with the ink

and the pen spit...

I wonder, at times

if I am worth reading

If my life is half the pages I pretend to write

Because the poetry that spills

Within the ink of this pen, I grip

Exists to emit what only others feel

The weight of their sorrow

While my pages remain unfilled

Like, death

I have written to the excess

That one might think I express that which exists within me

But I reflect those better versed in life

For...

Defining what the world means

Is what I do best

Poetry dripping,

thick through me

But words with little weight to anchor these pasted fillings

On the fresh pages left unfilled

I have written of love

That I have not felt

Of pain and sorrow

That has crept

tightly pressing onto my chest

I have written of death

To the excess

That one might think

I try to express a deep turmoil

That exists wit...

I snuffed me out / Or I thought I might.

Cross-legged on the floor: burn marks,

Charred / But I

Am melted wax

Seeping into my own /

Damned conscience.

Scorched.

Little boys burn brighter when they / Realise,

Time doesn't stop when you're extinguished.

Nobody waits if you slacken / So

Pack it up, man—

I picked me up / Or at least I tried.

I don't care

If you're burnt out;

Jack, be fucking nimbl...

To CS Lewis

Lewis, thou cretinous wretch,

in Christ’s peace might ye rest,

ye heaven-hued brother,

see how mine heart’s form

hath thine verse bothered

—— wherest Hephaestus’ gold-heat

hath now mine mind tempered,

and tampered have ye with mine

molten soul, thou’st poured me into

a peculiar mold, left me to cool, lifted mine form from thy forge and sharpened mine face with thou visage — brother...