Covered in
hickeys
and cigarette smoke
- art is
interpretation
and I
am a masterpiece

Love is like
a cigarette:
temporary,
but worthless
if kept
unlit.

It's hard to stop
loving
the things that
hurt you,
especially when
they're hurting
too.

We can cry
Till our eyes
Are burning.

We can laugh
Till our lungs
Are burning.

All in just one day .

We will promise,
We will vow,
For a future
Unknown to us.

Look at the sky,
And feel the stars
Like raindrops
In our eyes.

We can cry
For the beauty
Of life,
Or for the simpleness
Of it.

We will risk
All we've done
For a few seconds
Of fun.

Create memories
Everywhere we go.

We will promise
When we are happy
And curse
When we are angry.

Forgive in exchange
Of a kiss in the lips

We will love,
Like there's no tomorrow
And postergate what we want
As if we had a lifetime.

We won't finish all
We begin,
We will end things
That we shouldn't.

Appreciate
The small flames
But forget
The warm it gave.

We will get lost
In the way
Of finding ourselves.

We'll be selfish
We'll be humble
We'll be vain

We'll stay up
All night
Lookin at the moon.

Sleep all day long
Dreaming of,
What we will do.

Drink till we fall
And fast till it hurts

Create ourselves
Just as much as
We will destroy
Ourselves.

Tell the truth
With hesitation
And lie
With more faith
Than a preacher

We'll fight
For no reason
And give up
For the wrong reasons

But then again,
That is what young people do.

As the winds break into small feathered kisses
and idly burden the heart this May day
I lament for all the long withered wishes
once whose petals bloomed on my way.

A begone time love feeling unfailingly true
a touch that left a long hovering trail
on the probing soul fertile they grew
before cruel days wore them frail.

Aspirations soared on sun blazed wings
they had to be have on awakened nights
the innocent's hunts for the most precious things
haloed in passions of untamable sights.

On feathered winds were they drifted and gone
notions of love and visions to build high
but by their fire made me a man
leaving imprints as the years went by.

The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****!

Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!

If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!

He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!