This is what I think I want;
A heart that's mine,
Longing to love me and hold me.
I want to watch your eyes light up,
when you see me passing by.
I need you to chase after me,
because you forgot to hug me goodbye.
To tell me this is real,
and you don't want to lose me.
Tell me its okay to cry,
I don't have to do it alone.
Cause you will hold my hand,
and listen to my sorrows.
I want to lie next to you,
and hear you catch your breath;
when I run my fingers through your hair.
I want to catch the shift from sated to desperate.
Take me as you want, I am yours.
Love me recklessly, I beg.
I want someone to call in the night,
Just so I don't feel alone.
Someone to whisper that they miss my smile,
Even as I smile over the phone.
I want to belong to you,
Like you belong to me.
I need you to need me.

Elbows propped on tabletops,
we roll out our worlds, like a red carpet,
across the surface between us.
Mapping out our weeks
we speak in riddles
only able to be understood by
present company and others with
an acute appreciation for the absurd.

Round 1
We begin by bouncing pleasantries
mingled with snark and
littered with nonsense stories
across the space where our scotch glasses
drain lazily between us.

Round 2
Brings with it a new tone-
we begin to slip into hypotheticals
and start the dangerous
and all too familiar process of
looking over our own shoulders.
The past seems to sneak
into the pauses and reminiscing starts
to seem too surreal to be appealing.

Round 3
And we are forced to keep reluctant company
with the regret that now speckles the tabletop in front of me.
Our eyes retreat from each other
as our  mouths start forming
around our greatest inadequacies.
Fear of the future,
we're petrified by the present.
We are forgetting how to be hesitant
as coping mechanics drift and split.

Round 4
Shit starts to get real.
You try to be ambivalent.
And I just get angry.

Round 5
I am entertaining the possibility
of weeping publically.
(It's an unfortunate emotional default setting)

Round 6
We find our way back
to the familiar.
Accessing the damage
we joke to save face
while working to wind the loose ends
back together again
to stash them from where they came.
(But nothing ever fits back into its box as easily after its been unpacked)

Each week we try to be
each other's comfort zone
to crawl inside
to rest awhile.
But tonight we're too exhausted
and too self-absorbed
and too similar to get it right.
We'll try again next week,
on the next high-top next Wednesday night.

for a moment, the word stops breathing,
your heart quits pumping and bleeding in the
only healthy way it knows how.
there is silence—and then there isn’t, not anymore,
the sky is shattered by lightning and your
pulse jumps with every rumble, your body flinches with
every roar and the sky is turning far darker than it was a minute before,
the wind is like a turbine, going round and round and round,
tearing, ripping, and seething, you can see the clouds descending,
you’ve been through this time and again and you know the power
this twirling cloud will be rendering, you should be inside,
you can hear Mike Morgan yelling over the static of your TV
“prepare yourselves for the damage this will bring!
hide under mattresses, bathtubs, if you must under the kitchen sink!”
it’s coming your way, it’s picking up speed and you try not to imagine
what has made up the debris, you come to your senses,
realize it’s real, accept the fact that it’s not a drill, you grab who you can,
you shove them down stairs, you start counting heads and start saying prayers,
the cellar is dusty, you choke for clean air but it’s howling outside
and you know you won’t find any out there, metal is screeching,
someone is screaming, sirens are bleating out to anyone who cares,
it takes three men alone to make sure the door doesn’t tear off it’s hinges
in the height of the scare—and suddenly it’s over, you can’t here anything from anywhere.
the world again stands still, but it isn’t holding it’s breath,
it’s watching a thousand electric sparks die a last death.
you push against the doors, you need to breathe better air
and you can hear someone telling you that you need to take care,
but you push and you shove and you break free of your prison,
you climb out to see how your world has faired,
but there isn’t
anything
there

These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide

These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters

If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary

Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells

Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind

held by the anchor,
sliced by the blade,
we sing to the trauma brought on
by time
and decay.

we are the odd ones,
the creators, young and old
and young again.

and the best of us rot openly,
while the worst pose with
cereal box smiles.

that painting,
that song,
that book―

if it's real,
it was once terror,
with cruelty and sadness
as a backdrop.

it arrived because we suffered.

so be careful when you tell us
not to brood:

there's something awful about
"happy art."

You are the whisper out of darkness  
Murmured through pursed lips
The dip in temperature
A chill that sits against
The brim of misting eyes
That hides in hopeless sighs
And I think I’ve lost you
To your ghost, your name
Hosts all these bones
In closest mocks me taunts
and worse yet
I fret that all this emptiness
Is just a mockquet
this is leading up to something.
A real piece of work
Titled regrets, lets
Reflect on your unsettling lack of subtleties
My role model , how sad is that
All dressed in drunk swag stagger
A fake front you called confidence
And vulgarity you called humor
I will swallow all these distant dreams
Let you settle in my mind then I’ll call you tumor
Call you tremor call you st st stutter
Call you all the words I never uttered
I could just call you my fathers mother,
But that leads with some misconception
I can’t conceive as an accurate description
So listen I’ll just end this in love and pain and stress
We’ll leave in silence and different pains in our empty chests
I guess we’ll be leaving holding our breaths and i'll just keep on living
with these regrets.

Was it hard to stay true to your own beliefs
The strange taste collected upon your lips
Don't let it take you like everything else you own
Slowly spark the candle wax around your residue
Feel it in your bones, you would die for less than this
Just dont give in before its over, dont give up before you win
Now don't go stealing thoughts that aren't yours
I believed you to be someone but you're just another follower
A real life twitter whore, I never been blindfolded for this long before
It won't happen again because I don't see anything in you anymore
Peaceful wasn't my intention, an intervention won't prevent it, resented since the lessons stretched within your own resented presence
A matter of time before you snapped, the clocks run out and overlapped, it's said and done, Im sick of waiting, sick of cages and your traps
And I can't find the meaning to your persistence
Used to be drained of my life in order to satisfy yours
Take back whats rightfully mine, take back what I work for
After all that, you've gained nothing from stealing from the poor