As dear young children,
remember when we shared beliefs sitting on the swings?
and now on park benches, we find solace in the years the season brings.
Watching as the souls of the world live as kings,
when we were drunk on Halloween.
It was that night I realized what beauty was.
Our first night in the new apartment,
every room still empty.
We would get electricity tomorrow,
so we used candles.
I could see the mosaic glow of your face,
and it took me to a brand new place.
You were only wearing your underwear and my worn out sweater,
lying on the floor,
the floor that was covered in wine and scratch-offs.
The whispers of candles in the background.
My mind was wild, but now misused,
my eyes are a child that’s confused.
But my love will hold you when you’re sleeping,
and caress you when you’re weeping.
The season in your eyes,
it selectively identifies,
my face in the foam on the side of the glass,
right next to the episode of cries.
I only wish you were near me,
but you will never love me sincerely.
When will I escape these human emotions?
It feels like I only go through the motions.
Within that moment,
where the heated altercations wither away,
where the blazing screams end,
and the confessions really begin.
Where the funeral is quiet tears and melodic eulogies,
suppressed by the far cry of the brain,
filled with eternal apologies,
never to sustain.
Within his final thoughts before he hit the train.
Now we hold hands in a Eucharistic reunion,
only to steal our emotions from the young ones.
Every reflection of the light on the trees,
they taunt me with wonder and euphonic memories.
You won’t find a flame in my heart,
I've never been shown that part.
I’m a stranger to myself and that’s okay.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
I wish I could walk through the door.
I want to be on the other side.
They tell me to get off the floor.
I want to pass through and hide,
pass through the door of death.
I can smell the scent of the different rooms.
I can’t wait to feel the betrayal of the fumes.
I wish this bottle would get me higher,
higher to that lowest point.
For this inverse plan of disaster,
I shall begin to master.
Oh sanctuary,
why would you come to me?
Thinking much to fast,
and writing blood songs of the past,
as I stare at the scars on my wrist,
I begin to wonder,
was there something I missed?
Perhaps it was a cold deep purple sky,
more detached than that haunting smile in your eye.
Maybe it was two diffractions of symmetry.
For when the memory is possessed,
by an unknown passion of the gods’ eyes,
we will suddenly see softer tides.
I lie beneath the neon lights of the crosses and other anti figures,
dressed in blank stares with no air.
With closed minds,
they replenish and indulge their feedings on our lost soul,
and for them, it never seems to take a toll.
You gave me the words that were never there.
Today is a strange day.
As I watch the wealthy play,
I also see the children pray.
Oh a strange day.
I could see your lonely face looking back at me,
in the rear window of your parent’s Buick.
Your tears staggered down the ***** windows.
Drifting away, parting ways,
my thoughts always bring me to the sad days,
lingering intricate as a drawn out tragedy play.
You are a memory,
so vivid and extract,
quite detailed and exact.
Why did you come to me?
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Athena, Athena,
give us the wisdom we cannot understand.
We bow our heads, and close our eyes,
as you place the answers in our desperate hands.
You left Judas in Poland to hang himself,
and now you’re after me.
I can see her sift through each aisle,
only pausing to smell each vial,
before I drink them to denial.
Released by the oath you made me swear,
when you look into my eyes,
you can see nothing is there.
Dreamless, in a shudder,
too silent to mutter.
I found myself alone again,
becoming unknown again.
With a stomach full of whiskey,
a mind full of regret,
and a heart filled with neglect,
I want to hear my favorite songs at my funeral.
Hell and heaven are nothing but a forever dream.
So today is the last day.
The last day for the sands of time,
to appear in your eyes.
Today is the last day of my life.
The last day of our young freedom,
in the showers of flowers,
and my last day, trapped in the nightmares and thoughts,
standing alone in dreamless towers.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Lying alone in the crisp cold breaths,
of the shifting shadows,
in our aged attic,
sipping the gin from my flask.
The spirit they call Death,
it held me in its arms,
and told me I was a child beyond my present.
Not heaven sent, nor innocent.
He said the cocoon is hanging in the sky,
and soon all men will die,
right above Hamlet’s hot hair,
but all we can do is stop and stare,
but then again, Death is only a word in a liquid that freezes,
and still my guitar gently breezes.
Now plunging into another whiskey bottle so manifest,
sipping with the same spoon of my childlike past.
Listening to the songs of those times,
from the cardinals below,
The puddles in my heart, so deep, yet oh so shallow.
There are so many worlds in our eyes,
more species, more flies.
I see my reflection in the television.
Just a man I’ll never understand,
a stranger in some kind of danger.
I can’t understand why my heart races, in such frantic paces.
I’ve been watching a lot of faces in these worlds.
So many beautiful, terrible signs being orchestrated.
Too great for human hands, as it implodes in my mind’s eye.
By now the serpent is circulating through my veins,
squeezing my neck with unbearable strains.
The changing winds took away the air in our throats,
to a place higher than the highest notes,
that used to dance in our voices.
Now we are forced to suppress that feeling between us.
Your heart is just a hoax,
played like an act for the common folks.
Your eyes are no longer my golden prize,
just two dark windows,
where the creature cries.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
As despair re-enters your nightmares,
and turns them into dreams, with many repairs,
it blows out the candle in your pragmatic mind.
Please sit down and unwind.
You had the parents made of heaven and gold,
and still, you do as you’re told,
but you’ve strayed away, never to unfold.
Words are all I can remember of you.
Words are all I can see, beyond my tears.
I awoke on the highway, all alone.
I can see you, but I can’t talk to you.
We exist in separate worlds now.
We don’t have a reason, and I’m sure,
we never will.
You want to see me in the next life,
but I know that life doesn’t exist.
Why do we always resist?
Why is there such a trance of thoughts,
in the midst of being sober?
I tried to find a sign or key, but everyone had faded away.
I set my mind in a hot air balloon.
Floating over tall mountains and even taller Catholic steeples.
All the eyes looking up at me, from the people.
Counting the faces in all the empty spaces,
their clothes soaked in my tears.
I never want to get down from here.
I can see your eyes on the horizon,
and you’re holding me in an atmosphere,
that I cannot understand.
I never want to get down from here.
Watching and waiting, with a flame in my hand, the ink dripping from my mind.
We may wonder and we may dwell,
and we may be written on the wall.
We may be a schedule, a photo, or even a smell,
but what we find,
Is we may not be found at all.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Drowning in the smell of transcendence,
I saw too many people,
from the days I don’t like,
the days I try to keep in the basement.
Between clutching toilets and empty talks,
I met everyone a second time,
and now I’m locked in a car alone.
I couldn’t breathe and was losing a war with my mind.
Trapped in this prison, listening to people’s voices.
It was a beauty of a sound,
like an orchestra from a muse,
with the crying face from abuse.
With my tears still hanging on the window,
you whispered soft sparks of fire through my ears,
when you asked me,
where were my tears,
and what were my fears.
The kind only a candle can hear.
The night we were ballroom dancing with blindfolds on,
every light was off and the curtains drawn.
Swaying into the dark, like an avenue of trees.
Your eyes were born in that tiny moment,
where you want to believe.
Your heart was born,
in a change of season,
where you gave me no reason,
but to leave.
You gave me the keys to your heart,
then changed the locks.
Our love was like a delicate dandelion,
and you blew away the seeds,
so they flew with their tiny parachutes,
into the wind of the past,
and to cling to a stranger’s boots,
so you could walk away from the start,
and peer at me through your window.
After your heavy breaths,
you told me,
you’d rather be part of my story,
than a work of art, in my worry.
Then I woke up at the Main Street Park.
Now up on my knees,
I glanced at one of the trees.
The words “I loved her”
carved into the wood.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
A pen and a cup,
they are my seed,
to withstand a filthy need,
and to fulfill an empty creed.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to witness a Sunday Smile.
Waking up to the cold air again,
grasping hold of me again,
and the fire is gone.
The wind shuffling the pages of my life,
but I think I’m a little more stable now.
The frequent cheap, empty talks don’t bother me as much.
The songs you taught me,
stuck longer than the religion you sought for me.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to reach a Sunday Smile.
I stand still until,
the day gives me the words I’m looking for.
Feels like a collection of meaningful drunk words.
Whenever I look down,
I see my weary conscience,
waving hello in a shallow puddle.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to feel a Sunday Smile.
Although I’ve never toured the universe,
forward or reverse,
I have witnessed pale truth,
in a life of epilepsy.
She introduced me to the world,
through a Polaroid view,
as she critiqued my life of solitude.
Just hold me in your eyes.
For it is quite,
a rare sight,
to hold onto a Sunday Smile.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
Emotions relaxed in reverse,
I can’t imagine it any worse.
The sound of chalk against the wall.
The sound of talk, outside the hall.
The girl of such tall words and steep opinions,
never found the time to leave her voice,
and lend it to another’s choice.
She walked across the smoke filled room,
as if no one was watching,
as if no one noticed.
I see my death in her eyes,
the way a man can only wish he dies.
Wearing that aged cardigan from her father’s early years,
she divided her tears,
and gave me that look,
you only find in mirrors.
You were used to the cold nights,
and the lingering midnight flights.
Driving down a smooth cigarette,
where we were going,
I had not known yet.
On the drive home,
we sat in the backseats of your friend’s car,
The distance never seems as far.
Too many of us for one car.
We left our shoes at the beach,
by nightfall no one could see,
you touch your toes to me.
The reflection of the lights,
and music blaring,
allowed me to see,
you were staring.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Underneath the stretching trees.
Stranger still, my eyes are closing on the road.
More and more, with every heartbeat.
The air is getting tighter.
Its becoming more self aware.
Stranger still, I’m swerving in and out of consciousness.
By now my eyes are fading in and out of focus.
They’re very blurry, so very blurry.
Stranger still, it’s funny how I keep seeing the same faces,
but we are strongest in our broken places.
Stranger still, this moment won’t release you,
but it can isolate your senses.
Drifting into a different kind of despair.
One beyond repair.
Stranger still, the ringing in my ears,
The raining of my tears.
My tears of alcohol.
Stranger still, I can see everyone’s winter trees, as they sway.
I’m wondering what Holly would say.
“What an empty holiday.”
Stranger still, the vultures stood on every light post.
They were staring down at me like wise men on the coast.
They knew my future.
Moving with sound and sight.
They know I can see more in the dark, than in the light.
Stranger still, I sat alone on the couch, in the dark.
The only light casting from the Christmas tree,
I watched them hold each other, as they were getting loud.
The quiet sound of crying, was from me.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
Underneath the rainfalls,
between the quiet walls,
of the retirement home.
This is where my heart lies.
Retiring from the depths of passionate want.
At the retirement home,
there is the tranquilizing smell of hush and peace.
It is kept colder than my memories.
This is where my body dies.
Retiring from a recycled depression.
The walls show no emotion.
But it gives me time to think.
I remember the night when we sat in the bed of your truck,
conversing for hours.
I stared at your glassy eyes,
as we wondered how Sunday was given its name.
Since it rains every Sunday.
It rains everyday at the retirement home.
This alcohol feels as though,
it’s not working like it should.
But you are a melody.
A melody that is whispered and heard,
flowing through the halls of this prison
"If we are all fading into the void,
why not do it carelessly?"
There is no sunlight, to call us home.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC