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					Poem 1
Poem 1

Not me! The Trey!

Alexander, David, Charlemagne, and Caesar,
All four kings, two red, two black
The Black Lady and the Laughing Boy,
A woman of Spades, a man of diamonds,
Hidden while embracing their façade.
Acey, Deucy, One-eyed Jacks,
One eyed Jacks and the man with the axe,
A Flower Queen and Suicide Kings,
One Death Card to Trump them all.
Diamonds, Hearts, Spades and Clubs,
Dry aces, and dead blinds,
Dead hands and dead money,
Dead Man‟s hand ends with
Aces over Eights.

Poem 1 – Revision 1

Not me! The Trey!

Alexander, David, Charlemagne, and Caesar,
All four kings, two red, two black
The Black Lady and the Laughing Boy,
A woman of Spades, a man of diamonds,
Hidden while embracing their façade.
Acey, Deucy, One-eyed Jacks,
One eyed Jacks and the man with the axe,
A Flower Queen and Suicide Kings,
The first of Clubs, the others both red.
One Death Card to Trump them all.
Diamonds, Hearts, Spades and Clubs,
Dry aces, and dead blinds,
Dead hands and dead money,
Dead Man‟s hand ends with
Aces over Eights.

Poem 1 – Revision 2

Not me! The Trey!1
Alexander, David, Charlemagne, and Caesar2,
all four kings, two red, two black.
The Black Lady and the laughing boy3,
a woman of Spades, a man of diamonds,
hidden while embracing their façade.
Acey, Deucy, One-eyed Jacks4,
One-eyed Jacks and the man with the axe,
a flower Queen and Suicide Kings5,
the first of Clubs, the others both red.
One death card6 to trump them all.
Diamonds, Hearts, Spades and Clubs,
dry aces7, and dead blinds8,
dead hands9 and dead money10,
Dead Man‟s hand ends with
black Aces over Eights.11
          1
            Allusion to Disney version of Lewis Carroll‟s Alice in Wonderland, taken from dialogue right after the song
“Painting the Roses Red”.
                     Trey of Clubs: Oh no, Your Majesty, please, it's all his fault!

                     Deuce of Clubs: Not me, Your Grace, the ace, the ace! 

                     Queen of Hearts: You? 

                     Ace of Clubs: No. Two! 

                     Queen of Hearts: The deuce, you say? 

                     Deuce of Clubs: Not me, the Trey!
                     Queen of Hearts: That's enough! 
 Off with their heads!
          2
             Rouen courts are traditionally named as follows: the kings of spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs are David,
Charles (Charlemagne), Caesar and Alexander, respectively.
           3
             The Queen of Spades usually holds a scepter and is sometimes known as "the bedpost queen", though more
often she is called "Black Lady". The Jack of Diamonds is sometimes known as "laughing boy”.
           4
             When deciding which cards are to be made wild in some games, the phrase "acey, deucey, one-eyed jack"
(or "deuces, aces, one-eyed faces") is sometimes used, which means that aces, twos, and the one-eyed jacks are all wild.
           5
             In many decks, the Queen of Clubs holds a flower. She is thus known as the "flower Queen". The King of
Hearts is typically shown with a sword behind his head, making him appear to be stabbing himself. The axe held by the
King of Diamonds is behind his head with the blade facing toward him. This leads to the nickname "suicide kings".
           6
             The Ace of Spades, unique in its large, ornate spade, is sometimes said to be the death card, and in some
games is used as a trump card.
           7
             In Omaha hold 'em or Texas hold 'em, refers to an ace in one's hand without another card of the same suit.
Used especially to describe the situation where the board presents a flush possibility, when the player does not in fact
have a flush, but holding the ace presents some bluffing or semi-bluffing opportunity.
           8
             A blind that is not "live", in that the player posting it does not have the option to raise if other players just
call. Usually refers to a small blind posted by a player entering, or returning to, a game (in a position other than the big
blind) that is posted in addition to a live blind equal to the big blind.
           9
             A player's hand that is not entitled to participate in the deal for some reason, such as having been fouled by
touching another player's cards, being found to contain the wrong number of cards, being dealt to a player who did not
make the appropriate forced bets, etc.
           10
              The amount of money in the pot other than the equal amounts bet by active remaining players in that pot
           11
              The Dead Man's hand is a two-pair poker hand, namely "aces and eights". The hand gets its name from the
           legend of it having been the five-card-draw hand held by Wild Bill Hickok at the time of his murder (August
           2, 1876). It is accepted that the hand included the aces and eights of both of the black suits.



Poem 2
Poem 2
This is a test

This is a test.
        It is only a test—
And he could… go…
        All the way—
You cook it like this
        until it is done—
And all the time I thought
        It was an act—
Hundreds were missing
        And thousands had died—
ABC and 123,
        Its how we get along—
Fast acting Pamcid,
        For all your aches and pains—
I am not a President to
        Choose violence—
I know its hard to believe but
        It really is the answer
This is a pact for peace
        For all mankind—
Charles, you are going to
        Kill yourself—

This has been a test.
This concludes this test.

Poem 2 – Revision 1

This is a test

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.
        This is only a test—
And he could… go…
        All the way—
You cook the turkey at 350°
        until it is done—
And all the time I thought
        It was an act—
Hundreds were missing
        And thousands had died—
ABC and 123,
        It‟s how we get along—
Fast acting Pamcid,
        For all your aches and pains—
I am not a President to
       Choose violence—
And B equals C when you divide by A,
       It really is the answer
The Thanksgiving Day Parade this year is geared toward smaller children and
       For everyone—
Charles, you are going to
       Kill yourself—

…

This has been a test.
It has only been a test.
This concludes this test of the Emergency Broadcast System.

Poem 2 – Revision 2

This is a test
                          QuickTime™ and a
            TIFF (Uncompressed) decompressor
                are needed to see this picture.
       This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.
                          QuickTime™ and a
               This is only a test.
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                are needed to see this picture.
       And he could… go…
               all the wayQuickTime™ and a
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       You cook the turkey at 350°
               until it isQuickTime™ and a
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               and thousands had died and a
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                are needed to see this picture.
        I am not a President to
                           QuickTime™ and a
                choose violence
             TIFF (Uncompressed) decompressor
                 are needed to see this picture.
        And B equals C when you divide by A,
                           QuickTime™
                it really is the answer and a
             TIFF (Uncompressed) decompressor
                 are needed to see this picture.
        The Thanksgiving Day Parade this year is geared toward smaller children and
        for everyone       QuickTime™ and a
             TIFF (Uncompressed) decompressor
                 are needed to see this picture.
        Charles, you are going to
                           QuickTime™ and a
                kill yourself
             TIFF (Uncompressed) decompressor
                 are needed to see this picture.
This has been a test.
It has only been a test.
This concludes this test of the Emergency Broadcast System.


Poem 3
Poem 3

Untitled

THE PAIN, THE GAME, NO LOVE; REFRAIN.
THE WALK, THE TALK, THE LOOK, HE STALKS.
TREE TOPS, A CHANDELIER,
THOMAS PAINE AND PAUL REVERE.
WHAT FORTH, TO COMMEND.
TO FLOW, TO GO, TO MOVE, HALT WOE,
EXTEND THE HAND AND BACK AGAIN;
BREAK; SILENCE,
END— OF BEGINNINGS LONG SINCE CAUGHT UP IN THE PLAINS OF
TOMORROW‟S TODAY AT YESTERDAY‟S FUTURE.
TICKING, TOCKING, OPEN SHUT, THE SANDS OF TIME FORGIVE YOU NOT.
THE MOUNTAINS FALL, THE BLOOD UNCLOT.
THE CHURCH JOINS IN THE DEVIL‟S ROMP.
AND THOUGH ITS NOT LIKE I HAD FEARED,
WE RUN FROM SUN, GOODBYE, WE‟RE HERE.

Poem 3 – Revision 1

Walking Naked on a Midsummer Night in Winter With a Pain in My Lower Foot
~or~ I Have a Crazy Homeless Man I Keep Chained to a Tree in My Backyard Who
Smells and Spews Gibberish
There‟s pain in the game,
no love now; Refrain.
I walk with some talk,
one look sees him stalk.
A glance upward toward the spiraling abyss,
spots tree tops, a chandelier,
thinking of Thomas Paine and Paul Revere,
what forth, heroes to commend.
To flow, to go, to move, halt woe.
reaching out extends the hand,
extend the hand and back again,
saving no one.
Break; Silence.
        End— of beginnings long since caught up in the plains of tomorrow‟s
today at yesterday‟s future.
Endless faces, endless clocks,
ticking, tocking,
the cuckoo clock goes open-shut,
the hour-glass,
sands of time forgive you not.
With time the mountains fall,
and blood unclots.
The church even joins in the Devil‟s romp.
And though the future is not like I had feared,
we run from the sun to not be seen,
Goodbye, we‟re here.

Poem 3 – Revision 2

The True Meaning of Terror is Posted on a Billboard I Pass at 90 mph

There‟s pain in this game,
no love for me now, a quiet refrain.
I walk in jungle with quiet talk,
orange and black stripes stalk.
A glance upward toward the spiraling abyss,
brain freeze, reminisce,
treetops become a chandelier,
thinking of Thomas Paine and Paul Revere,
I feel the terror grow.
To flow, to go, to move, halt woe.
Reaching out extends the hand,
extend the hand and back again,
saving no one.
Close my eyes,
Can‟t be hurt.
Silence.
End— of beginnings long since caught up in the plains of tomorrow‟s
        today at yesterday‟s future.
Endless faces, stretching clocks,
ticking, tocking,
the cuckoo clock goes open-shut,
the hour-glass,
sands of time forgive me not.
With time the mountains fall,
and blood unclots.
And though the future is not like I had feared,
I run from the sun to not be seen,
goodbye, I‟m here.


Poem 4
Poem 4

I Hear You Laughing to Yourself

I hear you laughing to yourself,
you say my monster‟s made of felt,
you laugh and flick out all the lights,
leave me alone in darkest night.

I stand and scream, “Its not a fake!”,
And beg, “Don‟t leave me to this fate.”
You say, “Goodnight.” And shut the door.
“Don‟t want to hear this anymore.”

I shout, “You won‟t; he‟ll eat me up!”
“He‟ll eat by bowl and eat by cup,”
“He‟ll get a bend-y straw and then,”
“He‟ll drink and drink until I‟m dead.”

Off in the distance there‟s a slam,
you‟ve left me all alone again.
This time the monster now is pissed,
this time his bite, it will not miss.

Off in the country, children play.
In other places it is day.
Under my bed is always dark,
under my bed there‟s not a spark.
I grab my bear and hold it close,
I close my eyes and ball my toes.
Warm, wet tears run down my cheeks.
I shake a bit and my bed squeaks.

My closet shakes; my bed bucks up,
I cry and try to stop myself,
the tears, they come now without halt,
if I do die, know its your fault.

My closet opens by itself,
here come my monster made of felt,
with razor claws and glowing eyes,
know its your fault if I do die.

My vision‟s blurry now with tears,
its your idea to face my fears,
you could have just left on the light,
then I‟d have made it through the night.

Poem 4 – Revision 1

I Hear You Laughing to Yourself

I hear you laughing to yourself,
you say my monster‟s made of felt,
you laugh and flick out all the lights,
leave me alone in darkest night.

I stand and scream, “Its not a fake!”,
And beg, “Don‟t leave me to this fate.”
You say, “Goodnight.” And shut the door.
“Don‟t want to hear this anymore.”

I shout, “You won‟t; he‟ll eat me up!”
“He‟ll eat by bowl and eat by cup,”
“He‟ll get a bend-y straw and then,”
“He‟ll drink and drink until I‟m dead.”

I grab my bear and hold it close,
I close my eyes and ball my toes.
Warm, wet tears run down my cheeks.
I shake a bit and my bed squeaks.

My closet opens by itself,
here come my monster made of felt,
with razor claws and glowing eyes,
know its your fault if I do die.

My vision‟s blurry now with tears,
its your idea to face my fears,
you could have just left on the light,
then I‟d have made it through the night.

Poem 4 – Revision 2


Poem 5
Poem 5

Untitled

After any sort of heated disagreement,
never again will I turn my back,
on my little brother.
Like something out of 300,
A popular movie based on Sparta,
He responds with a hurl
        Of his hockey stick.
Far and true it flies,
unbeknownst to me,
glad not to have eyes in the
        back of my head,
or else I may have lost one.
A flash of white,
legs give out,
a feeling of weightlessness,
body gliding through the air,
My world distorted,
that vertical which once was horizontal,
Silence, but not for long.
Grecian warriors falter not,
I stand on this hard stone battlefield,
this asphalt stretch of unforgiving black,
head heavy, knees weak,
I stand and face my opponent.
In his eyes he shows his cowardice,
in my eyes I show him no mercy.
I move toward my foe,
in a staggered formation by myself.
Left and right,
I gain on him,
certainly he would not give me,
my Beautiful Death,
Run, run, run,
as fast as you can,
can‟t catch you?
All I need is to get close,
all I need is to grab cloth,
all I need is for you not to get to the door.
This is where we fight,
This is where you die.
Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.
Merry Christmas.

Poem 5 – Revision 1

Christmas in the Suburbs of Jacksonville

From behind me my brother hurls his hockey stick
Far and true it flies,
I find myself glad not to have eyes
         in the back of my head,
or else I may have lost one.
A flash of white,
legs give out,
a feeling of weightlessness,
body gliding through the air,
My world distorted,
that vertical which once was horizontal,
Silence, but not for long.
Spartan warriors falter not,
I stand on this hard stone battlefield,
this asphalt stretch of unforgiving obsidian,
head heavy, knees weak,
I rise and face my opponent.
In his eyes he shows his cowardice,
in my eyes I show him no mercy.
I stumble toward my foe,
in a staggered formation by myself.
Left and right,
I gain on him,
certainly he would not give me,
my Beautiful Death.
Run, run, run,
as fast as you can,
can‟t catch you?
All I need is to get close,
all I need is to grab cloth,
all I need is for you not to get to the door.
My house, the impregnable fortress.
My hand closes like the door to a pitch black room.
This is where we fight,
This is where you die.
Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.
Merry Christmas

Poem 5 – Revision 2


Poem 6
Poem 6

Sexy Ice Cream Party

I spilt my seed in the belly of a whore,
I say we open her up and get my baby back.
I say we take a knife,
drive it deep on through,
I say we cut it out,
move it to another womb.
I know I made a mistake.
I should have had it with you.
Then when I am done,
with my crimson holiday,
we should take my baby,
and dance on someone else‟s grave.
There‟s a cross carved in my wrist,
down the road and across the street,
it squirts when I flex,
and sprays a likeness of itself unto walls.
Finger-painting with flesh, Love.
Blood Angel, open the chest with an incision all the way down,
spread the skin like scarlet wings,
keep the individual alive,
torture them inside; listen to their screams,
poke around inside their brain and make them laugh,
if I feel like it; I do feel sometimes.
Hold my baby underwater,
watch the bubbles stop,
don‟t want anything to do with you anymore.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
ignite the body, watch in delight.
Is this love? Doesn‟t matter what you call it.
Some mistakes last two lifetimes.

Poem 6 – Revision 1

Oh Sweet Child of Yours

I spilt my seed in the belly of a whore,
I say I open her up and get my baby back.
I say I take a knife,
drive it deep on through,
I say we cut it out,
move it to another womb.
Then when I am done,
with my crimson holiday,
I should take my baby,
And drown it in a well.
There‟s a cross carved in my wrist,
down the road and across the street,
it squirts when I flex,
and sprays a likeness of itself unto walls.
Finger-painting with flesh.
Blood Angel, open the chest with an incision all the way down,
spread the skin like scarlet wings,
keep the individual alive,
torture them inside; listen to their screams,
poke around inside their brains and make them laugh,
if I feel like it, I do feel sometimes.
Hold my baby underwater,
watch the bubbles stop,
don‟t want anything to do with you anymore.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
ignite the body, watch in delight.
Is this love? Doesn‟t matter what you call it.
Some mistakes last two lifetimes,
but neither one has to be mine.

Poem 6 – Revision 2


Poem 7
Poem 7
Wandering About on God Knows What

The sign read „Franklin Street‟
the pain in my upper-left chest
         started to subside a bit.
Small houses lined the two sides of the street,
a streetlight off in the distance.
The ground was gravel under my feet,
a stone lake with me playing Jesus;
hands conducting a tuneless orchestra
         throughout the cool night air.
A thousand crickets chirp for me,
a soundtrack all their own.
Moonlight dances on an open field,
No, moonlight doesn‟t dance,
it sways like a shy girl at her first homecoming.
Dateless; but swept by the music.
I tumble up a hill,
clutching grass all the way to the top,
throwing this confetti towards the sky,
little green birds falling forever,
their wings never formed,
unable to dive; unable to glide,
disappearing into viridian clouds on the ground.
A gentle wind tussles my hair,
caressing my flushed face,
stroking me with angels‟ wings,
the beauty of their faceless smiles.
I sigh to myself at the edge of a cloud,
looking down at it‟s gentle curves,
an artist‟s David not yet complete.
An airy step into an endless fall,
hints of white on a canvas of eternal blue,
My little green birds.

Poem 7 – Revision 1

Wandering About on God Knows What

The sign read „Franklin Drive‟,
the pain in my chest seems to fade.
Small houses lined the two sides of the road,
a streetlight off in the distance.
The ground was gravel under my feet,
a stone lake with me playing Jesus,
my hands conducting a tuneless orchestra
         throughout the cool night air.
A thousand crickets chirp for me,
a soundtrack all their own.
Moonlight dances on an open field,
No, moonlight doesn‟t dance,
it sways like a shy girl at her first homecoming.
Dateless, but swept by the music.
I tumble up a hill,
clutching grass all the way to the top,
throwing this confetti towards the sky,
little green birds falling forever,
their wings never formed,
unable to dive; unable to glide,
disappearing into viridian clouds on the ground.
A gentle wind ripples my long hair,
caressing my flushed face,
stroking me with angels‟ wings,
the beauty of their faceless smiles.
I sigh to myself at the edge of a cloud,
looking down at it‟s gentle curves,
an artist‟s David not yet complete.
An airy step into an endless fall,
hints of white on a canvas of eternal blue,
My little green birds,
Surrounding me everywhere,
All under my back,
Staring with me at an azure sky,
I don‟t want to die.

Poem 7 – Revision 2


Poem 8
Poem 8

Life

Fuck the prodding medicine man,
his actions hide the truth,
fuck the people under him,
they know not what to do.
Fuck the church, fuck the steeple,
Heaven helps the few,
fuck the little children now,
born to misconstrue.
Life is but a leaking boat,
one that‟s going down,
fuck the women and the children,
I don‟t want to drown.
Grab your guns and rifles now,
ready for the war,
shoot the people overseas,
and the man that‟s overboard.

Come on now and grab your swords,
take the weaker out,
bullets make up more for words,
than dying screams and shouts.
Murder all your enemies,
then turn on your friends,
for life the only remedy,
is dying at the end.

We tire of the fighting,
once everyone is gone,
we kill, and kill, and kill some more,
leave the bodies on the ground.
As old Death looks upon us,
we glance back on our lives,
the horrors that we witnessed,
just to try and stay alive.

The songs now are over,
the battles all but won,
when it comes to the end,
we all bathe in the sun.
The blood now is halted,
the pain no longer hurts,
the end comes from fighting,
instead of through words.

Poem 8 – Revision 1

Life

Fuck the prodding medicine man,
his actions hide the truth,
fuck the people under him,
they know not what to do.
Fuck the church, fuck the steeple,
Heaven helps the few,
fuck the little children now,
born to misconstrue.

Life is but a leaking boat,
one that‟s going down,
fuck the women and the children,
I don‟t want to drown.
Grab your guns and rifles now,
ready for the war,
shoot the people overseas,
and the man that‟s overboard.

Come on now and grab your swords,
take the weaker out,
bullets make up more for words,
than dying screams and shouts.
Murder all your enemies,
then turn on your friends,
for life the only remedy,
is dying at the end.

We grow tired of the fighting,
once ev‟ryone is gone,
kill, and kill, and kill some more,
leave the bodies on the ground.
As old Death looks upon us,
we glance back on our lives,
the horrors that we witnessed,
just to try and stay alive.

All of the songs now are over,
any battles have been won,
when it comes to the end,
we all bathe in the sun.
The blood now is halted,
the pain no longer hurts,
the end comes from fighting,
instead of through words.

Poem 8 – Revision 2


Poem 9
Poem 9
The Castle of She Who Was Fairest of Them All

There are no longer any mirrors here,
the parties come and gone,
the one who held these mirrors dear,
has been forcibly withdrawn.

Winter comes and you see snow white,
the halls stay cold and hollow,
the windows see no candlelight,
the snow now mounds and swallows.

Spring comes round and vines grow
  through the windows, across the floor,
weeks become years, though time moves slow,
hiding this castle forever more.

Memories of old seep out,
an echo rising to a shout,
“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
I had it all, only to fall.”

Poem 9 – Revision 1

The Castle of She Who Was Fairest of Them All

There are no longer any mirrors here,
the party‟s come and gone,
the one who held these mirrors dear,
has been forcibly withdrawn.

Winter comes and you see snow white,
the halls stay cold and hollow,
the windows see no candlelight,
the snow now mounds and swallows.

Spring comes round and vines grow
through the windows, across the floor,
weeks become years, though time moves slow,
hiding this castle forever more.

Memories of old seep out,
an echo rising to a shout,
“Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
I had it all, only to fall.”
Poem 9 – Revision 2


Poem 10
Poem 10

I Think, Therefore I’m Stuck With Pink ~or~ All’s Well that Wells All

I tried to rhyme with the word „orange‟,
and found it to no real avail.
If you stress it then or-ange rhymes with door-hinge,
So I guess my search didn‟t really fail.
Next, I tried to tackle „purple‟,
Only to discover that „nurple‟ wasn‟t really a word.
I did discover in Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger the word „burp‟ll‟1,
I allowed this to slide, not caring if it was contextual and absurd.
The third rhyme-less giant was „silver‟,
The color of coins, my 2005 Pontiac Grand Am, the hidden lining on all clouds and
extremely old cheese,
The kind of cheese served with wine presented on a salver!
I claim brilliance, others say, “Oh, please.”
I conquered the rainbow, literarily instead of scientifically, bamboozling even the silver-
lined clouds themselves,
Thank you. Thank you. Please hold applause to yourselves.
1
 “The baby won't stop crying. His face is turning purple. Will anything make him feel
better? I bet a burp'll.”
        - Excerpt from Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger by Louis Sachar

Poem 10 – Revision 1

I Think, Therefore I’m Stuck With Pink ~or~ All’s Well that Wells All

I tried to rhyme with the word „orange‟,
but my best efforts did not avail.
If you stress it then or-ange rhymes with door-hinge,
So I guess my search didn‟t really fail.
Next, I tried to tackle „purple‟,
Only to discover that „nurple‟ wasn‟t really a word.
I did discover in Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger the word „burp‟ll‟1,
I allowed this to slide, not caring if it was contextual and absurd.
The third rhyme-less giant was „silver‟,
The color of the hidden lining on all clouds and extremely old cheese,
The kind of cheese served with wine presented on a salver!
I claim brilliance, others say, “Oh, please.”
I conquered the rainbow, bamboozling even the silver-lined clouds themselves,
Thank you. Thank you. Please hold applause to yourselves.
1
 “The baby won't stop crying. His face is turning purple. Will anything make him feel
better? I bet a burp'll.”
        - Excerpt from Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger by Louis Sachar

Poem 10 – Revision 2


Poem 11
Poem 11

The Sad and Painful Death of a Small Child

“I know something you don‟t know.”
Chirped the little boy.
“What is it that I do not know?”

What could he know?
I thought, What don’t I know?
 “I know something you don‟t know.”

Annoying, yes, but even still I wondered where this would go.
He laughed, and covered his mouth.
“What is it that I do not know?”

“Come boy, tell me now,
what secrets do you hold?”
“I know something you don‟t know.”

If he persists, he‟ll have some woe,
hiding from me what I didn‟t know,
“What is it that I do not know?”

Curse this blasted child to Hell!
His blasted secret that he won‟t tell
“I know something you don‟t know.”
“What is it that I do not know!?!”

Poem 11 – Revision 1

The Sad and Painful Death of a Small Child

“I know something you don‟t know.”
The little boy smirk appeared to glow.
“What is it that I do not know?”

What could he know?
I thought, What don’t I know?
“I know something you don‟t know.”

Annoying, yes, but where this would go.
He shuffled his feet to and fro
“What is it that I do not know?”

“Come boy, tell me now,
what secrets do you stow?”
“I know something you don‟t know.”

If he persists, he‟ll have some woe,
hiding from me what I didn‟t know,
“What is it that I do not know?”

I‟ll beat this child into dough!
His blasted secret he will not show,
“I know something you don‟t know.”
“What is it that I do not know!?!”

Poem 11 – Revision 2


Poem 12
Poem 12

No Weddings and a Funereal

Flowers end a relationship,
getting plucked one by one,
petals crushed under my feet,
she always loves me, never not.

Getting plucked one by one,
all the good ones are always gone,
she always loves me, never not,
lying to her is a lie to myself.

All the good ones never know,
I mirror „I love you‟ just like I talk,
lying to them is a lie to myself,
lying to her is a lie to myself.

I mirror „I love you‟ just like I talk,
it‟s easy when you lie,
lying to them is a lie to myself,
it hurts less and less each time

It‟s easy when you lie,
“I love you”, fake a smile,
it hurts less and less each time.
Dress yourself in black.

“I love you”, fake a smile,
she knew, but never said,
dress yourself in black,
flowers end a relationship.

Poem 12 – Revision 1
Poem 12 – Revision 2


Poem 13
Poem 13
Poem 13 – Revision 1
Poem 13 – Revision 2


Poem 14
Poem 14
Poem 14 – Revision 1
Poem 14 – Revision 2

				
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