My soul is a song that sings a raspy tune,
About love, life and the heartache I've been through.
My heart is a book with pages and chapters written out of order about me and you.
I can't seem to remember the beginning of either and the end seems like a distant future.
But I want you to take your time listening, reading and trying to understand,
Because my life is in these words
And even if we're from different worlds
Love, pain, joy and heartache are things we've all come to know.
And by simply listening and reading each other, we can begin to grow.

Silence it fills me, consumes me.

I don’t know how or why but I’ve gone from being utterly stumped to unchamisly inspired
before i had things to write about
before i needed to write
i sat at this very same keyboard and threw my heart upon it only to be rewarded with 2 short paragraphs
words of which i can neither feel nor believe in
when i needed to pour my soul into a song or verse i could not
but now in times of strange calmness
just as i had accepted my horrible self and its ways
here i am completely inspired
throwing my words into a verse of which not many will read or understand
my only hope is that i can look back upon these strange lines and know that within them is me
all that i am now is a pile of vowels and consonants that jumble together to create either a masterpiece or disaster
maybe i am a cliche
maybe all that these words are is boredom
a question that i have is is boredom really boredom at all?
do you ever realize your boredom in the loud noise of life?
the simple answer is no
boredom is like loneliness where as it is only recognized in the silence
silence brings all to the surface and even now it helps me to write
maybe the reason i could not write before was because my life was so loud that i couldn’t hear myself screaming from the inside
that screaming is now words upon this page
that silence, it still consumes me but, it also inspires me

i love new cds
the crinkle of sliding
plastic wrap off
how it feels to remove
the security label
in two tries or less

to see my eyes on
the backs of songs
crystal clear and
iridescent

(too new to be vintage
too old to be cool)

how smooth a brand
new jewel case feels
and a booklet before
fingerprints

but then again i love
finding them secondhand
a little smeared and
pages crinkled

how a brand new
album is a blank
slate for me to write
my memories on
and when the plastic
cracks and the music
plays on it all just proves
that together we lived

(hoping and praying we didn't get
scratched to the point of no return)

i was born in
the fall of a fleeting
shimmering silver age
the hybrid time
between analogue
for the common man
and digitization
of the masses

my childhood
when these things
were still fragile
expensive
slipping into
adulthood and
falling into
feeling obsolete

*(i am the last remaining
child of the compact disc)

found myself washing dishes
in a bra and pajama pants
watching the rain like
i would watch a movie
with half my attention
and my hands full

anxiety and rage
had hit me again
but halfway through
what i had set out to do
i found myself so tired
i had to sit down and
watch through the oven
door as my life burned away

and i knew that my
five a.m. had
come this time at
five p.m. and
things had finally
gotten bad

but i have to pretend
i'm okay as long as
it's still daylight out
thank goodness
the days keep getting
shorter and shorter
because i do so get
tired of lying to myself.

sometimes i wish i didn't exist
other times i wish you didn't exist
all the other times in between im in a weird void thats oddly pretty fulfilling and i really couldnt give less of a ****

a blaze of stars*
decorate the bush sky's darkness
a blaze of stars
their lighting is like glitter bars
twinkling in arraying brightness
exhibiting beautifulness  
*a blaze of stars

When you see the sea and a poem,
It makes you wonder doesn't it?

Waves of thoughts begin to form...
you can't help but noticed
that the majority of people prefer Poetry that is raw...

It's as if writing or reading a poem creates the effect as if those written words form waves that come towards the shore of a sheet of paper...

And if the reader is unprepared, those waves can ebb him back to where the waves come from

And drown him in the sea of thoughts