Everything I touch turns to flies.
He called me Magic Eyes,
but didn't hesitate to forget
and get scared like all the rest I've met.
Who wants to be a fly anyway?

Everything I touch feels like gun metal.
Cold and deadly
This expensive paint brush
is a trigger I crush
everyday:
A sharp accessory medley.

Everything I touch enters my blood stream
and feels only like a dream
where you made me scream  
and drive away.
My cells thrive on bribes anyway.

sight smile
approach lifts
close tingle
eyes sparkle
yours
fields mesh
ours
hair stands
strands brush
wills fade
lips touch
lost
forms meld
blood flows
tongues search
breath mixed
perspire
wet
we float

Grab my bike
and wheel it out
into the driveway.
Snap of my helmet
clicking under
my chin.
Mount and push off,
and it feels like flying.
Pedal effortlessly
gliding over
the bumpy ground.
Arms are red and itchy
eyes tearing
head spinning.
Puck walks along the trail
and I pedal next to him
until he stops
and I look behind and se
him standing erect,
noble, looking out onto
the horizon.
Dad comes out with
a brush and calls
for Sara,
and she patiently
stands still as he brushes her,
puffs of white fur
fluffing behind and
coating the grass.
Green is thriving
trees are waltzing against the
gray sky.
Dandelions peek through
overgrown grass,
and biking past the window
in the kitchen
I smell taco seasoning
wafting throught the air.

This moment,
with my dad playing
with Sara
and my sister biking ahead of me,
wind whipping my face
and
my mom in the kitchen,
it suddenly makes sense,
life,
and why we live in the
first place.

A smile like gold,
A heart like dust.
Eyes like the rain,
A face that will only bring pain.

He tells you things,
Like how you look nice.
He kisses your cheeks,
And makes you blush.

Uses your body,
Like you're a doll.
Tells you sweet words,
To make you fall.

Pushes you down and takes control.
He doesn't care about you,
Or anything in this world.

He tells you he loves you,
He tells you he cares.
He tells you he will always be there.

His lips only speak lies,
His hands only do what they know how to do;
They softly brush your heart,
And then they rip it apart.

You may not see it,
The pain in my eyes.
I watch you leave,
Silently praying you'll return alive.
I may brush away your words,
I may stiffen with your hugs.
I may ignore your rules,
And show you no love.
But deep down,
At the bottom of my broken heart.
I love you with my all,
I love you with everything.
I don't want to lose another parent,
I don't want to see you go.
I dread the day where I will have to say,
"Goodbye."

Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.

Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,

For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.

It was a moment so chilling when I realized I had feelings for you again.
Yes, again.
This rotation of endless "agains" has kept me up day and night in anger,
love, lust,  but most of all, confusion.
This relation we have is driven by sexual jabs and hurtful comments
designed to inflict the most pain on each other.
This "again" that I feel will fade into nothing more than another hatred for you.
But just like every other time, soon we will both start gazing at each other from across the room
and quickly looking away as though the other hadn't seen our eyes on their face;
We will begin once again lose the offensive spews
and our small conversations will evolve into tense talks with blushed cheeks and hot ears;
Yet somehow, I cannot get enough of this cycle of "agains".
It is addictive like your personality.
It is an obsession like your ability to make me crazy.
I am crazy for you,
but at the same time I fear that this lusty craze with wear off
and we will be left with nothing but silence.
Could this be true admiration for one another? Is this chemical?
Or is this passionate relationship powered on by our teenage hormones and sexually-frustrated bodies?
Just tell me what you want.
If you are happy, I will be content.
I guess, if you look at our situation from afar,
you could say we're in love. I’d disagree.
This is nothing but an infatuation between two people both sharing one common thing:
somebody who they can imitate passionate love with again and again.
I crave your physical touch and your boyish humor.
I need your attention most of all.
You need it too; you need me more than I need you.
How you wish to brush your lips against mine and feel my body and hold my hand and be mine. Nonetheless I wish for that too. Badly.
Nightly I torture myself over what to think, what to want.
But every time this happens, I push you away.
And the cycle of "agains" return, only to ruin us inside even more.

petty disputes and
untied shoelaces
and
spilt yogurt
can break baby skulls
in your brain,
if you've got no reason
to lean over
and tie it all back up.

man can walk on coals
if  he feels somewhere deep
that he really has to walk on
those coals.
woman can lift a car
to save a child
and she knows why.
I can't brush my teeth sometimes.

there's something I have to do
before I die.
that should be enough to keep
my head above the muck
at least for a little while.
something is coming my way
if I hold on a little longer
I know it in my bones.

still...

I envy above all else
he who has a why to live.