I stand amongst, under my feet, my leaves of last year's death toll.
The dried old leaves of my own yore, to which belongs the great sea of mold.
Today and tomorrow, as I grow older, there is a shriveling in my head.
With each day next, I'll surely step, my stomach fills with dread.
Softly I stand, plainly in the ground, between the shadow and the trees.
My feet don't make a sound, and my breath is held at ease.
Now, I 'am a Nyctophiliac; a lover of the night,
I have watched false stars begin to rise, and sing louder than the light.
You and I are like a long distance relationship that's stretches as far as my backyard.
I look out my bedroom window every evening and watch you change in and out of your twelve dresses, catching glimpses of your naked body without you noticing.
We are the wordless poets who write poems for our nicotine needles and wine addictions.
You lay beautifully on the clouds, as I lay quietly in my bed, and that's the closest we'll ever be with one another.
You don't realize that you are the one of whom my thoughts drift always when I set fire to my mind.
My soul yearns to rest in yours and dream until I die.
We could wrap ourselves in ribbons of moonshine and call ourselves a song to remember, and fall like leaves into each other while we sing sub-natural songs.
The sun is in your blood, your water is in mine.
For you I'd walk endlessly until the end of time.
Read books that were never divine.
My Dear; let us kiss until we die.
The wine is a symbol of unity.
Any other questions, just ask.
Friends leave like the leaves in Autumn;
slowly, inevitably, and softly flowing down to decay amongst the ground and the wind.
But there's always those few stubborn dead ones that somehow stick to the twigs.
Remind yourself to keep close to those ones; don't let them fall and they won't let you.
The same could be said for the books who grow legs, yet they're always sneaking out the back door.
Ask yourself who the books who grew legs are. There is no wrong answer, except for one.
When words have been killed,
You will find yourself in love,
But without words; gone.
This piece had a name, but I forgot it.
I can hear it tapping on the bedroom door of my conscience,
a silent wind that's playing Louis Armstrong on a broken record player.
There's an orange rain spilling from a street lamp into my bedroom through a un-curtained window.
I lay in my bed, and though I wished I was dead, all of my thoughts were turned to you.
I can feel your haunting claws embracing my body like a desire too deep for the sea, and yet, I'm alone tonight.
You never liked how I turned my body into a book, but you never complained.
I'am a ****** good story to read.
A mystery novel written by a long dead author.
The orange rain drops 10 feet from the window and lands sideways on my wall.
It drains into the cracks of my closet door frame, and sets a light of God from within.
Soft cotton blooms under my sleepy carcass and folds between the crevasses of my form, and I become a moaning chrysalis with a fire set in it's chest.
Maleficence and wine swarms like wasps above my head and they're both drowning in the city light, the orange light.
The city light, the orange light.
The city light, the orange light.
It's nearly summer.
The best time of the year; undoubtedly.
A festering of walking and breath,
half naked woman on sand and ice cream,
and I, alone on my boardwalk, dreaming of lines that tell stories,
not paying any attention to anything that is happening.
That's the moment when a human finds a way to make love out of thin air on a boardwalk.
Wisdom doesn't come from time,
Wisdom comes from those who see a light,
Wisdom is a thing to be feared,
Wisdom can be the final end of existence,
This poem is a centipede,
it crawls on it's hands and knees begging for knowledge,
it crawls because it has forgotten it has feet to stand on,
it crawls because it is scared,
The centipede crawls because it knows no other way than