The Misuse of Rhyme.

I want to sleep
but I'd rather make you weep
and read my messy rhyme
because I want to kill time
painlessly, while I am at it
lest Karma hit
me back with it's best shot
while you stand there smoking pot
laughing at my misery
offering me a cup of tea
and tipping over the pot of milk,
staining my expensive silk.
But that is what you always do
so it wouldn't hurt if I were to
put you through this painful ordeal
and make a sumptuous meal
of the woes inflicted upon you by my verse,
and take advantage as you won't curse
Because you secretly grinned
while I hopelessly stringed
dissimilar words together
while grumbling about the weather
and questioning the legitimacy
of meaning in incoherency.

If only,

you could see

that I am cold again.

If only,

you could see

me dancing in the rain.

And I'd give up forever to touch you

'Cause I'd know that you'd feel me somehow.
You're the closest to heaven that I've ever been

And I don't want to go home right now.

When dewdrops on leaves
light up like fireflies beneath our feet,
and shooting stars sparkle in the sky
when we meet.

another possible love poem, maybe?

you crack me up the way
the december wind outside my
bedroom window does.

and then i bleed.

no, i am not hurting.
i am savouring every moment of
what is going to be the last time
that you will be mine.

i am writing it all down
in my head, somewhere,
only to write
and scribble on plain white
papers and
make rhymes
to compliment
the melody that you have put in my life.

Winter madness.

the guitar gently mourns
under the strain of her small
fingers that tap-dance on it
while you crawl
away from her.

you aren't too sure
of how to close in
for the final attack
and then gently retreat
after scarring her insides
while she still plasters that big happy smile
and pretends that all is fine.

and you sweat because you don't have time
to wait
or the courage to stay
and puke out those words
that you do not want to say,
and show
that you really do care.

and then the draft of cold air
gushes right in
and slaps me across my face
leaving fingerprints
in the form of goosebumps
that take over my skin.

and you, wondering
whether you should take off
your expensive, new suede jacket
to protect me.

just let it be.

Wounds.

all that is left behind
is the faint trail of the song
that you played last night
to create a mood
that would make you feel good
about the scars that you painted
on the hands that held you so close.

you, screaming like a mad man
while she
shrieked her lungs out
and tore apart
the white sheets
stained red.

Ella Fitzgelard does to you
what fuel does to fire
and you transform
into something savage
but oh! so beautiful
and out of control.

you, who wants her to
say your name
with her bleeding lips
which you nibbled at, carelessly
while you devoured
her face
to satiate that undying passion
that overwhelms you.

and all that is left behind
is the smell of your
stale skin
and sweat
mixed with the fragrance of
burnt out incense sticks,
and me.

_________________________________

possibly the strongest thing that I have ever written
and i don't even know why i did so.

...and I am mourning the loss of a friend...

because i did not know that it would hurt me so
because i had to say goodbye and let you go.

because angels break their wings and lose flight
because good mornings were never exchanged when the sun was bright.

because you were ticklish and defended yourself with a poke
because i have cried so hard that i could choke.

because my rhymes were never any good at all
because i had to write this to cushion my fall.