The Sound Of Loneliness, and Stolen Poetry

I sat on a rock,
at the edge of a lake,
in the mountains.
Under a tree,
whose roots were exposed.
Water had washed the dirt away.

The water was perfectly still,
you could see the beautiful reflection
of the mountains, perfectly.
The moon gave a soft light,
made it all look... purple,
and the selfless snow,
threw it all back.

The mountains were huge.
The mountains were beautiful.
And as I sat listening
to my own loneliness,
I could feel something more.

And as Great Lake Swimmers played,
I could see myself,
walking out to the middle of the lake,
naked,
exposed,
alone,
and just staring at the field in the sky,
and seeing infinity,
and then.... I     relized,
That      the world     IS    beautiful,
and that I    had forgotten that.

mountain lake

I drove to a lake in the mountains.
The water felt cold on my toes.
But the thought of her,
kept me warm.

The bird that flys under your car, and for one minute you care, and hope you didn't kill it, but soon, you forget you even saw the bird.

He is the flightless bird,
a beautiful thing,
with a broken wing.
He skimpers out,
into the road,
just as a car flys past him,
he flaps his wings,
but he won't move fast enough.

You look to the beautiful girl,
sitting by you.
You pretend to care,
about this little bird,
this little helpless creature,
that has never been loved.

And you respond to her silence,
with silence.
But then the bird is forgotten,
and your meaningless conversation,
about whatever the hell you were talking about,
before you forgot about the little ones
before you paid attention to the birds,
continues.

The little bird, laying in the road.
A broken wing,
and a broken leg
Lonely and afraid,
forgotten,
abandoned.
Lays hoping someone will come along,
and show it a bit of kindness.

As you sit in a movie,
The little bird is crying.
As you drive,
you stare at this beautiful girls chest,
instead of her eyes.
Your Attention is to the body of the girl you want to fuck,

The little bird is screaming.

You just want to take her home.
The little bird just wants a home.

As you come driving past,

And smash, the little thing, that was never loved.

Untitled no. 9

I just want to lay in the grass
on a clear,
warm night,
looking at the clouds
and just hope,
that some birds,
will fly past my eyes.

How many times do I have to try?

Sometimes I wish that,
I could actually follow through,
That I could actually do it,
Actually,
For once,
Do it,
Instead of just,
Trying,
And opening my eyes,
To some sad excuse,

Instead of having water,
Swishing inside my lungs,
Instead of having the blood,
Dried to my clothes,
To the floor,
Instead of having my throat,
Sore,
From all the vomiting,
Open my eyes,
To some being,
Greater then I.

Instead of hiding everything,
Show everyone,
Tell everyone,
And then,
Say goodbye,
For the last time,
For good,

Praying For Death

We all wait anxiously,
We all wait alone,
We get lost in our own darkness,
Watching those happier then us,
we never see the positive,
And we never are ourselves,
And so we go on
We live our lives as someone else,

Then it's over.
We end it.
Hoping it will make us happy.
But in reality...
After we end it,
We know we have to confront Him.

As we sit by him, He'll look at us and say,
"Your life, it wasn't right,
But hell, you tried, with all your might,
...sorry son, I gotta say, you need some time,
to think of your crimes,
and i know...  I should have said yes, when you prayed for your death,
But I hoped you would want your breath,
Now it's over, and after I heard you curse,
I knew I made it worse."

And then we sit,
Contemplating what we've done
And we will see the tears in his eyes
Because we took our own, God damn lives.

A Poem From Prison

This is the poem I wrote to piss hell out of my english teacher, Randall, Fuck you, and Fuck Robert Frost too


You want me to write a poem?
A poem like Robert Frost?
You want me to write a poem?
A poem about nature?
Well go to hell,
Nature is for photographers,
Poems need emotion,
Poems need passion
Not rules,
Not a grade,
Not a God Damn box!
It needs to be free.
So tell me how to write a poem.
Tell me one more God damn time,
To write like Robert-Fucking-Frost.
I'd rather write a poem fom prison,
Then write a poem
like a,
Textbook,
Anal,
Basterd,
Poetry needs to be free.
You feel it, you write it.
So you can fail me.
You can kick me out,
But as long as i write how i want,
As long as my poetry,
Is my poetry,
And not someone elses.
I'll be able to smile
I'll be able to sleep at night.
So fuck Robet Frost.
Fuck every man that writes acording to rules,
Instead of feelings.
Poetry is emotions,
Not rules,
Not Rhymes,
Not words.