Poems

Christopher Robin

Hear his screams,
as the bullet pierces,
Through his head.

Look at what you have made him do.
Never had he a chance
In a world where you
Never gave him one.

Different from birth,
But now
Never shall you know what
Will become of poor
Christopher Robin.

The Girl With Make-Up

I cannot figure out why she wears all that make-up.
Is it so the boy at lunch will look at her or
Is it something more something deeper?
Only she knows.
Maybe it is to hide the world from who she really is.
After all she is the only one who knows.
So she lives her life behind the many coats.
Ever so careful not to show the world how she really is inside.
Not to show them how fragile and yet torn she is.
When she comes home each night,
Before she tucks herself away,
She wakes the many coats.
Coat-by-Coat the tears roll in.
Coat-by-Coat she is revealing who she really is.
Coat-by-Coat the truth has finally come.

The Rose

The rose is said to be a thing of beauty a token of ones affection. But yet I know of someone who has the beauty of a rose.
Not the red nor pink nor yellow not even the purity of the white.
Some say in a mystical place where the unicorns roan the grasslands and leprechauns play their tricks on one another lies a blue rose yet his color makes him seem even more of a fantasy.
He has the heart of a twisted cruel black rose.
He knows he has still he shows know sign of it neither fear nor happiness no sadness nothing that shows he will ever be the one to hurt you the most. He is out to destroy the one he loves.

Innocence

You can never go back to those days. The days that nothing ever went wrong. You felt like you had the world in the palm of your hand. These days were those of innocence.
The innocent days when you ran and played in the rain. After the rain stopped and the sun came out you would gaze upon the rainbow. As you move on you no longer have these days and they change to Innocence lost and never returned.

Bliss

With two goblets of wine,
A loaf of bread and,
My lover of love,
What else would one need?

As we lay careless
Beneath the willow tree
We no longer think of whom we envy,
But of who envy we.

Mitch Gerland Brine

Mitch Gerland Brine went out one day
To hang Himself.
For He knew
His wild rose would never be his.

Did she not see?
She was holding his heart
Right there in her very palm.

O’ curse that day
She had not allowed him to enter.
She just tucked it away like a long forgotten toy.

Now when she goes home and finds
What her toy has done,
She will look in her deep in her mirror.

And in it she will glance.
And a piece of her heart will die with his.
She can know longer bring him back.

Still today she searches
High and Low
But Mitch shall not return.

Does she really care?
If she had would she have driven her precious toy,
So far away?