Between Us

Again you tell me you love me
you spread you legs like freedom
and I step inside the middle
and the universe crawls down
like ants upside a hill taking in the sun
where I hold your warmth
before you stray
with days of change and bait
before simple pleasures break in half
our parade of two hearts rejoicing
while holding off distances that
speak open lies that will invade
our wretched minds to pull away
from cotton candy kisses
filling up the nights
of nothing that we had
back when we had loves escape
to fill what we'll never have between us
and anybody else who came after


Dark World

It's raining grey drops
Of gloom upon my head,
Electric streaks of lightening
Are raising thoughts of the dead.

Crashes of thunder
Make the clouds wonder,
If it is worth being alive,
Or should they go under.

Weeping willows cry for
The souls that are lost,
Their limbs tremble at the
Condemned bodies being tossed.

The sun melts away,
The world is forever dark,
I roam the earth blinded,
Leaving trails of tears behind.

I am surrounded eternally
By midnight death,
Everything is dying,
I have taken my last breath.


Potential

'Zero', an extremely
complex concept for
the finite human mind,
assumes that there is
'nothing'.
Yet, its idealogical,
and numerical power,
is 'something'.
In the 7th Century AD,
mathematician began
using 'zero', as a power
between '-1 and 1'.
Theorists, like Isaac
Newton, began using
'zero', as a comparison
between 'nothing' and
'infinity'.
For those who believe
in the half-filled water
glass, 'nothing' from
'nothing' does leave
'something'.

Beware the Collector

Beware the collector of broken hearts
he doesn't want all the pieces
he throws away the spare parts
he just uses them to learn of the feminine beat
so he can sweep women off their feet.

Beware the collector of broken dreams
he creates from the pieces the perfect schemes
to portray every man every woman could love.
he'll make you think that he's a gift from above,
beware the man that I speak of.

The collector lives in cyber space
he has no voice, he has no face
he can be anyone in any place
and he can disappear without a trace
leaving you feeling only disgrace.

Beware the collector of feminine lust
he doesn't want your body he wants your trust
he gorges himself until he's had enough
about the time you realize it's all a bluff
he hasn't even got the balls to email you a goodbye
he's off looking for another fish to fry.

You see, the collector has a book to write
women are his fuel, his fire, his light...
your pleasure, your pain are his delight
look out my little doves, he'll be online tonight.











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