i spend a lot of time
thinking about the stars
and even more time
placing you in them

I do not write to spare anyone else's feelings,
but to save my own
It is the only time when I can be as honest as I please,
when I can speak what's on my mind in more eloquent ways than my stumbling and stuttering sentences

I have not the gift of the musical language the way Ravel does,
nor that of Tesla and the natural sciences
I cannot explain away why in fact the limit does not exist nor Pythagorus' innate ramblings,

but I can understand why Poe
was oh-so-miserable
and accept his love for beautiful dead women

I share Whitman's love of birds and their tales of woe for long lost lovers

Dickinson - hides herself -
the way I do - in her writings
and the ****** fly interposed itself in my light as well

Emerson and Melville tell tales of self reliance,
with Major Molineaux and Bartleby taking life by its reigns
but even Dante seeks Virgil's aid in finding hell

I am by far no writer of substantial merit
and have much to learn,
but that is exactly why I love what I do

I write to understand that which happens to and around me

I write in often vain efforts to find solid ground beneath my tired feet,
But most of the time,
I end up with paper scattered around me, full of words that I have yet to know

I write when I don't know what else to do,
even when I don't mean to find myself locked away,
scribbling meaningless words onto paper

I write to learn more of the errors of my ways,
maybe if I can gather my thoughts into one coherent phrase,
then I can finally accept my wrongdoings,
then I can grow

There is a sad realization that knocks me down with every ripple of its wave each and every time that my words cause grief or hurt

It is never my intention,
but even that is hard to believe

To say that i am sorry for them is pointless
I am not and never will be

How could I betray myself in such a way?

I write to escape
to understand
to create
to learn
to stand
on my own two feet
I write to be honest
among other things,
but most of all,

I write because it is all I know

...
but you're not here
and i'm not there

and it hurts
to think of

You sit among those with dark thoughts
malice, malevolence, horror, atrocities
but there you are
with your terribly crooked smile
and those eyes
                    oh
                        those
                              eyes.

That don't stop shining
with the tears
of sorrow that
never quite reaches your heart
but your heart
                    oh
                        your
                             heart.

When others look at you
they see a kind smile,
a warm face,
a heartwarming embrace
but when I look at you
                    I see cruel eyes,
                         a fake smile,
                              a halfhearted embrace.

Your hugs don't warm me.
I only feel your cold collarbone
that juts out against my skin.

Your smile hides the sharp teeth
that bite at those who cross you.
Your bite is way worse than your bite
and oh how it bleeds
but
          oh
               your
                    eyes.

They sparkle sinisterly
gleam devilishly,
cry wholeheartedly,
but your tears don't
          hurt
               me
                    anymore.