I will stay
until I'm dismissed
and will walk beside her
through the dark thicket
and sunlit meadow
I will cut my hands
to retrieve roses for her
I will give her all of my unbroken pieces
and nurture what little she has left
I will carry her when she hurts too much to walk
and I will leave her side when she wants silence
but I will stay
until I'm dismissed
until I breath my last breath
until she falls into the wildflowers
until my reflection fades from her eyes
until my face no longer drives her imagination
until she hates me for loving her
until we walk no more in the woods
until I fall over her
broken and empty
where she rests
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
those quiet
lonely nights
when long shadows crawl over defeated days
and the red orange sun drowns beneath dark waves
a resonant loneliness
washes over me
dulling love and light
and hope
like the slow deliberate movement of the clock in the kitchen, hands that mark the passing time between jade scarabs
like the soft lilt of a sparrow left outside my window, alone in the twilight
as a church bell doles its distress, slow and deep in the distance, breaking the still darkness with its lament
water cannot cover the spectre of memory
I pour another whisky
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
the blank page is the emptiness between beats, it tells you the gates are closed, of darkness abated, and just how many deaths are too many
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
the weight of age is the price we pay for experience, we know where the edge is and it was never the girl
I've seen the edge, standing over purple blood stained sand, bullet ridden Red Bull cans and a photo shrine for her next to his dying body
I watched as he lay in self inflicted agony, legs flailing next to the shrine of the cute blonde, "somebody" on repeat on the truck radio
I went back to the dune days after his suicide, purple blood still there next to a latex glove, nothing else remained in the lonely desert
obsession playing out its macabre hand in a desert panorama, but I feel for the girl who got out while she could, immortalized in the desert
It was less about love and more about mental illness
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
although it's been many many years
since our love faded
and we went on to live our lives apart
I still think about you sometimes
when I see a museum
or an art show
or go to the ballet
you were always a lovely dancer
dark in your beauty
and in your love
and I wonder what life would have been like
had we not broken our affections
had I not burned all my journals
containing the all the poetry with your name in them
a few slipped through and were published
but they should have died with my past as well
now looking over an ocean of time
I wonder how the girl you were fared
as you became a woman
and found love again
and became the center
of someone's universe
I look back at you
with stoic indifference
like the love that burned
was a sun exploding on television
I can't say that I miss you
or the pain of our breaking
which seemed unbearable at the time
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
without you all my pages would be abandoned
in barren desolation
and all my days would run into nights
and nights into desperation
and mornings would come and go without notice
except for the taste of ash in my mouth
staining everything your love didn't touch
as my world would lie in ruin
and I drift into the remainder of my life
knowing that I had once loved
when I was more than a shell of a man
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
she loved me best when I teetered on the edge of self destruction, bottle in hand, her addiction to the danger, the dead in my eyes
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
passed by the candles and flowers for the first time today, the first time since we lost our innocence
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
I'm driving along the San Bernardino highway
it's hot
the sky is translucent brown
below me speeding past
are the clapboard and stucco houses
the untended palm trees
trash on the side of the pavement
brown weeds choking the berm
a city of lost hope
and strangled dreams
my exit is coming up
and I expect to find a disheveled man or two
standing on the side of the road
under the street signal
when the old man is not there selling flowers from plastic buckets
they always hold cardboard signs
with words written in black marker
though I never read them
all cardboard signs say something about god
I see many faces here
there is the one armed man
wearing matching red shorts, shirt and ***** ball cap
he has a ******** on his forehead
sunken eyes, unkempt beard, *****
he looks just like Charles Manson
crazed and desperate;
there is the young man listening to headphones, his bike against the fence;
and the aging cowboy leering under the brim of his leather hat
sometimes I see true desperation in the eyes of the lost
but none speak to me
like the young man with the distant stare
witnessing some tragedy
in the mist
his olive drab bedroll lays next to his feet
tied with a worn leather belt
his sign simply says "Oklahoma"
there's a vibe about him that says hope has sold him a little more of the highway
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
as ink violates paper, scratching in jet, deep, the stygian stamp of iron through ribbon. paper and ink are innocent. the blood is mine
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC