The Sparrow

Outside the window
where last we sat

lies the rotting
corpse of the sparrow

Butterflies

This is my first "love" poem. :D As always constructive criticism is welcome.

Butterflies

There are butterfly's

inside of me.

Their beating wings

a tsunami in my chest.

This is what happens to watermelon seeds

swallowed as a child. They cocoon

and grow.

To be awakened from their long slumber

by your smile.

Empty.

Empty.

I sit with you

on this worn down couch

that has become our pew.

Vile venom and vitriol

from our mouths we spew

feeding the fires in my belly

my hatred of you.

Like falcons locked in coitus

we plummet

aching---yearning

for the ground below us.

In the dying light,

of our dying day

the rooster crows.

Zen

The sound of the pen

  as it scratches against the page

                 is like the rush and roar of the river

    when I need

to pee

Monsters

As I breath the summer air.

A thought, it comes to me.

Of the burden that I bear

and all I've come to be.

A greater monster you'll never find;

I torture and kill them here.

One day they'll come with iron to bind

their eyes alit with fear.

That day you'll open your eyes; awake

to all that you have done.

On the stand you'll squirm and shake

knowing that I have won

and when they lock you away in that padded cell;

I'll cackle and laugh triumphantly to know that you're in hell.

C8H10N4O2

Savior of my soul
in darkness you bring bright light
caffeine I am yours.

Dear Undertaker,

give me a decent burial

don't let my wife kid you

by saying we have no money.

Give this note to the cops.

What is a few short years lived in hell.

Hell is all I have.

No more will I pay the bills.

No more will I drive the car.

No more will I wash, iron and mend.

No more will I eat the leftovers

cooked the day before.

This is no way to die? This

is no way to live.

At night I can no longer sleep.

I married the wrong nag--

nag-nag and lost

my life.

Dear undertaker,

give me a decent burial.

Hunger

Hunger. I awaken.

Cold. Bits of mummified

flesh stick to once alabaster

satin.

Hunger. The smell of

putrid, stale air. Still

my stomach roars.

Hunger. The last

breath of death escapes

my lungs. A guttural moan.

Hunger. I claw.

Wet brown soil gives

to what is left of hands

nails long and brittle.

Hunger. I begin

my search. To satisfy-

Hunger.

Untitled.

Pathetic.

Says a voice deep inside.

The person I wish I could be

as I lay awake through the night.

Weak little pup.

The voice continues to chide.

Perhaps this is the person

I could be - if only I tried.

If you want it go get it.

Is the virtue he extols,

but life is more complicated

than he seems to know.

If you refuse to shit or get off the pot.

There is only one option. Shut the fuck up.