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Updated whenever i feel like , check back once every few weeks.


Insomnia
Insomnia is infectious ,
she spreads her legs ,
teasing you with the
hidden beauty of the long dark night,
inviting you to witness the secret lives of others ,
lovers whispering sweet nothings to each another,
It makes you long for something bitter.

And you realise that you waste half your life in dreamless sleep.

Being restless is fun once you have company.


Insomnia is contagious,
She spreads her sin from person to person,
Makes you feverish and dumb,
leaves you with bags under your eyes
and nothingness



And you realise from all this that love gives of itself without asking anything in return ,

Love is its own reward ,

even if loving an insomniac gives you nothing,


maybe there is beauty in nothingness


I used to dream , my dreams meant nothing.








I killed my Muse
I killed my muse,
Because she hurt me too much,
Never answered my calls but
would try to take advantage of me,
late at night while i write .

I still hear her music
in my dreams,
beckoning me from the corner of my eye
to return to a world where Romantic delusions
still paint the sky.

Hearing her name would make me feel sick,
but i enjoy her music:-
my musing
cause i need it for my writing.

I still long for her venom.

What if the sweetest thing in the world would kill you after just a sip,
Doest it stop you from wanting her?



Cynicism
The funny thing about poetry,
is that it doesn't allow you to be,
A cynic,
you are forced to give things significance,
that don't deserve any,
to rhyme significance into things,
like death and breath,
both parts of life ,
there is nothing special about dying,
any pain associated comes from the loss of a bond,
not a life.

Yet you are forced to rhyme in time,
So that you can get awarded points,
by that philistine ,
whom you hope to make money off of,
(i mean you)



Tradgedy

Tradgedy to the Tragic :
like water to dry earth
and brown grass
- renewing what once was ,
like flame to the coal
- bringing warmth and purpose,
like warmth to the cold,
like a blanket to the naked
begger .

''How tragic''
you might say ,
I see tradgedies every day,
it doesn't bother me :
Tradgedy makes an entertaining play,
and i get to see it for free
and its funny if you think of it ,
comedy and tradgedy
are the same thing
one minus death and suffering,
you can laugh at both
when you realize :
it all rhymes .

( imagery partly from King Lear and Hamlet)

Beauty

To me, beauty is,
any aspect of a thing that
brings pleasure ,
a pleasing face,
or pleasing words
that deserve to be thanked .

While Beauty lies in pleasing ,
Please is a word you don' hear,
too often ,
and pleasure is a perverse thing,
you find it on sale in powdered form,
in picture books ,
and at the side of the road late at night.

Pleasure is cheap
but without beauty
i think it isn't worth having,
because :
such a thing has no memory ,
No meaning ,
its really nothing,
as it doesn't last
(while this poem might be on beauty, it's really philosophy)