There are butterflies
painted on the ceiling,
and moths clinging to
the light fixtures.

I pluck out my eyelashes
and make the same wish
on each one.

She holds my hand
and kisses my lips
and leaves me
gasping for air,
and I wonder if she's
just as confused as I am.

Empty angels dance
upon the thunderhead,
skip amongst the ******,
laugh amongst the dead,
twirl along the river Styx
to abandon those they've led.

I asked the wizard
for a heart,
but he'd given them
all away.
He said, "I can order one,
But it won't arrive
for three-to-five
business days.

"A heart of gold,
a heart of coal,
a heart as cold as ice;
slightly damaged,
slightly used,
a heart as dead as night."

I said, "Anything
with a beat or two
should be all right."

I'm being ripped at the seams, slowly shredded into a fine paper doll,
then crucified,
nailed to the peeling yellow walls with a push pin,
creased,
stained,
mocked,
graffitied,
ignored,
buried beneath a galaxy of poor paper martyrs,
then finally crumbled - -
and as I fold in on myself,
as I twist, contort, break, shatter, transform,
undergo a tragic metamorphosis,
I begin to feel alive again.

I was addicted to you;
you were allergic to me.

This page is a graveyard.

I bury my secrets
beneath the gentle curves of vowels and the razor edges of consonants.

Each written word
holds a bit of truth,
a bitter truth
that thrashes
in violent desperation
to be known.
I suffocate it
with *******,

and it becomes nothing
but a ghost
that stirs the reader's heart.

He's lost his marbles
on my hardwood floor.
I keep stumbling
trying to reach the door.
It'll take a little patience
to collect them
one by one,
but he says
it'll be worth the trouble
when the job is done.

He's spilt his red wine
on my favorite dress.
Droplets of strawberry nectar
dribble down my chest.
It'll take a little trying
to remove them
stain by stain,
but he says
in the end
it'll be worth the strain.

He's spiked my Cherry Cola
with an eight ball of love.
He calls me pathetic
because I can't get enough.
When the saccharine haze
finally wears me thin,
I just can't stop crumbling.
It's so humbling
to be his
one and only
true mistake.

He's left my withered heart
on our satin sheets.
It may not work correctly,
but it still beats.
It'll take a little nerve
to lace it
vein by vein,
but I know
it'll never be the same.

The difference between falling and flying is the landing.

I would have flown,
beautiful,
graceful,
majestic.
The landing would have simply been a case of self-sabotage.

In every thunderstorm, there is a million suicides,
each raindrop an explosion of life--
no, death to create new life.

The circle of life,
that vicious cycle of perfected balance.

Let me be a raindrop.

It took one look to love her,
two years to tell her,
three tries to ask her
if she'd stay with him forever,
five lies to realize
the mistake that he had made,
six drinks and seven pills
to make her go away.

Nothing
but the hollowed out infinity where my life once nestled amongst the luminous dunes of the Sands of Time and the nauseating hopes of Forever.

And I,
a hideous, putrid, rotting thing, attached to that nothing like a leech, summoning my own power from pain, taking, taking, but giving little to those who once offered their strength but now deny me.

Yet I give.

Nothing
but my withered soul, desperate in my cracked snow globe of a reality where the ashes of love flitter to the ground, so dazzling, so pure, so deceiving until they kiss the scarred earth.

And I
give my heart to them so secretly that they do not notice, do not appreciate my token through their suffering, until all that I am shrivels, wrinkled and useless, and nothing remains but a shallow whimper, the ghost of a sob.

And those cries fall upon deaf, cauliflowered ears, solid lumps with no purpose awaiting the soundwave that will finally shatter their silence.

Still I give.

Do you ever stop to wonder,
as you go about your day,
what if things had been different
or had gone another way?

What if the Sun decided
that it deserved a break,
and instead of shining,
it refused to wake?

What if the happy rainbow
had gone a little pale,
or the grumpy rain cloud
cried tears that never fell?

What if every flower
had burrowed underground,
and every chatty songbird
didn't make a sound?

What if your reflection
couldn't look you in the eye,
and any sound you uttered
just came out as a sigh?

What if no one glanced your way
as you stumbled through the streets,
and no one had a thing to say
when you struggled to speak?

What if everything you knew
had simply gone awry,
and every pleasant hello
was a horrible goodbye?

What if every what if
was a harsh reality
that hasn't happened quite yet,
and was just waiting to be?

Three months is a long time to go without posting a poem, but life ****** me away. I'm back now, fortunately, and I'm super ready to start writing again.

Just not tonight, because I'm exhausted. :b

I left hoping you'd miss me,
but when I returned,
I was just

a memory.

They never let you touch them.
They always hover just out of reach, and if they sense you've gotten too close, they swiftly flutter away with no hesitation, giving you not even the shadow of a chance.
They're so beautiful, the way the light reflects off of their wings, how the dust shimmers like powdered diamonds across the silky cloth.
You want to hold one, to examine its intricate design, the delicate art of Mother Nature; you want to observe this magnificent creature up close for yourself, yet you can't seem to get a hold on that fragile jewel.
It's faster than you are, and startles so easily every time you move in to capture it.
So you prowl, sneak up on the unsuspecting darling, gently curl your fingers around it - - and oh! how it struggles against the sudden darkness.
It fights desperately in its prison until its energy diminishes completely, and it collapses in your sweaty palm, defeated.
Gradually you peel open your makeshift cage and peer inside at your new prize, only to be disappointed by its lack of flitting and glimmer.
It doesn't twitch with gorgeous energy anymore.
It's limp, lifeless litter in your hands, and you toss the pretty tragedy so carelessly to the side as you move on to your next venture without so much as a blink.

Don't worry about who owns the sky;
the birds will still be there tomorrow.
Not everyone was meant to fly,
though God made us all a little hollow.

Don't trouble yourself by asking why;
the truth is far too hard to swallow.
When we're living just to die,
our happiness is something borrowed.

The sun is bleeding over the horizon,
and the clouds are soaking in its pain.
It ain't easy taking all these lies in,
but I guess that's the price of rain.

The rain will come
to wash it all away.
Until then
it's just another day.

He spoke so slowly.
His words, they came from
the twitch of vocal chords
and slips of tongue.

His lips wove glances
of the truth behind his smile;
she was taught to take chances
every once in a while.

His words left a message on her heart:
"Go ahead, take a shot in the dark.
Don't hold back anything if you miss--
life is better when you take the risk."

Her heart sank gently.
Its beat broke the still
of awkward silences
and dazed surreal.

His lips traced trails
along the river of her tears.
His whispers calmed
all worries and all fears.

His words left a message on her heart:
"Go ahead, take a shot in the dark.
Don't hold back anything if you miss--
life is better when you take the risk."

She cut out his tongue;
he ripped out her heart.
They tied them up together,
and took a shot in the dark.

It was winter;
I remember the sugary frost coating our windows, and the powdered snow piled upon our rusted roof.

I remember how each breath seemed to linger in that closeknit cab,
trapped.
We were both too shy,
so we sat together, enjoying the silence of everything we weren't brave enough to say just yet.

I remember the way your lips trembled then parted
an hour too late,
each careful letter tumbling free
with an awkward grace,
before falling perfectly into place.

I remember how your words tasted against my eager tongue,
raw like the ocean air,
but for the life of me I can't remember
if they were a confession
or a warning.