Can anyone tell me that they're not a liar

That they're not a hypocrite

That the world isn't evil

And hearts aren't cold?


I'm sitting here waiting all by myself, waiting to be told

Winter Scene

my father; blowing snow in a snow
storm, sounding the alarm (his bold
loud voice) !keep away from blades!
streetlights explode and dazzle my eyes
cutting chopping killing perception
i tell myself it's okay to cry when your brain is been blown
inside upside down all about
spinning sticking gripping snowflakes on my wet cheeks
stinging numbing sizzling snowflakes

and love is dead in the garden in the ba-
ckyard
the roses i talked to all summer are dead
all plants and weeds lie broken dry
cold wind sheer down my throat
breathing breathe that freezes cuts kills like winter

Effort

You surround yourself with the words you took off broken bridges and burnt out hearts
Like an artsy emotional blanket to shut out the cold, like a stylish flourescent lamp to ward off the dark
But you're just another poet seeking an air of tragedy
Trying to appear somber with a 'genuine poetic mentality'
You only know what fear is, you do not know of pain
The feel of your fears sliding under your skin
And the myth of sacredness being taken down before your crying eyes

What will the people say when they see you torn asunder?
What will the critics think when you abruptly get pulled under?
Grabbed by the throat and drowning in despair
You lucky boy, you get to experience
Exactly what you've written so wittily about before
And now you realize how it feels, like being bound and gagged in the back seat of your own life
While it shoots right off a cliff
The day to day suffering, without a clear point
Not sharp enough to break through the veil, but thick enough to smother you fully

In practice you fall up with honors and royalties galore
But in the real world test you just fall through an open door
That's built into the floor
Of the house you proudly live in
Of the road you proudly stalk