I saw, in her eyes
A sense of what could never be
While she wrote goodbye
Letters in her smiles
And when the sun rose
She'd let it hide the shadow
Clinging to her shoulders
Like a forgotten memory
On the surface,
So that all the world
Noticed was a mirage
Of pent up brilliance,
I saw, in her
A fear of dawn
And I told her
Close your eyes
So I won't have to see myself

I see green in my dreams
Reflected in a sky the color of a mirror
And you may argue
Mirrors have no colors
But I say they do
They are any shade you wish to present them
They hold the color of evidence
And truth in their golden hues.
"I see green in my dreams"
I told my godfather
Bargaining in his infinite wisdom
He looks at me through eyes
Heavy with age
And tells me"I see you have learned to hope."
"No" I say shocked
"Its not right for a person
to feel like they have to protect themselves from love
Its not right
To want to be invisible
Just to escape future abandonment
Its not right
To hope against hope
And suffocate your lungs with false truths
Convincing enough
To let yourself down
Its not right
To keep yourself from wanting big things
Because "you don't deserve them"
Its not right!"
"Perhaps," i say getting ready to leave, "But I do them anyway."

My Father used to say “poetry is in everything; darling, even in the way you listen.”
That was before he burned all his books
And moved across the street and miles away
But I hold no grudges
For he has thought my ears more intimacy than my brain ever could
Maybe that’s because they’re prone to ‘unrequited love’
And when Yuna said “you don’t wanna belong to me because freedom feels better”
I understood why my mind never confessed to my heart
What it witnessed heartbreak do to my soul,
Perhaps Marvin Gaye explained it better
When he sang “I want you”
But you see, this piece of literature isn’t supposed to be about love
I wouldn’t dare call it poetry
But it is a work of art
Like the mix tape I made myself when I was counting my last days
First on that list was “hold on” by Alabama Shakes 
I wasn’t oblivious to the irony in my choice
But I suppose I forget all about it when I’m lip singing to Gnarls music
“Does that make me crazy?”
“Probably!”
However, sad brad smith won’t let me give up
And in their words I hear “I want you to help yourself”
As if I was the guardrail to my own happiness
What they don’t see, though, is that
Nothing could ever replace the things I’ve lost
Maybe that’s why I have a certain weakness for sad songs
It could also be why I can find sadness in all happy things
And I know I’m not alone in this every time I hear
“The yawning grave” by lord Huron
He tells me “I’ve sent you omens and signs”
He tells me “I’ve thought you melodies, pomes and rhymes”
But I’ve lost faith in those omens
Because Hozier left his words printed on my chest
“There is something so tragic about you,” he said
I have to believe he knows me best
Well before I even began to know myself.
Sometimes I wonder if all I am is a patchwork
Of all the music I’ve ever loved
And the discarded pieces of all the once I didn’t have the heart to
Because every time I try to
It makes me want to scream “I can’t feel my face when I’m with you”
It makes me want to experiment and live
And blast “Novacane” in to my eardrums
Until all I can hear is the sound of forgetting
But when the play list ends I’m pulled back
By “remind me to forget”
With memories that thrive to live on the surface.
Perhaps I’m waiting to be saved
It could be the reason why my pulse quicknes
When Berhanas song plays in the back ground
“Go the whole wide world just to find you”
Until I’m slapped back to reality by my father’s words
One of many
That I couldn’t be forgiving enough to let go
I have my own escape though
On the rooftop across town
And when I look below
All I can see engraved on the earth
Are the words “wings wouldn’t help you down
down towards the ground, gravity’s proud”
So I take back my words
Truly, Bon Iver knows me best
For I’ve lived up the turret my whole life
Hoping someday my bones would grow feathers
That would protect me from the waves of solitude.

He was like a spark of lightning and just like lightening he could only be seen for a moment in time. He was fragile enough to let tiny moments affect him but at the same time he had the ability to let it all go, to let it dissipate in to the night where it all happened because unlike most people his days consisted of variation of nights.

There was the twilight; that soft touch of ray still existed, caressing him with happy thoughts. He had hope then. Dreams hadn’t turned in to foreign concepts and he didn’t have to lie to convince himself everything was okay.  Then came the night. It confused him at first, seeming oddly desperate. The ground beneath him stopped being stable, instead, it developed a certain quality of being foam like, lopsided, unpredictable.  It rocked his world until he finally fell and broke all the pieces that made him who he was.

It was then that midnight came with all its might. It consumed everything in its path so that nothing of the scattered sunlight remained to be a lantern of hope. He was utterly engulfed by it like the vortexes he read about on his sci-fi books and lasted so long it seemed the only thing he ever really knew.    

He had this way, you see, where he would lay his neck on the edge of his bed so his head would dangle from it. His hair hanged loose and his eyes went glossy with the thoughts that fed on his mind. Then and only then could he see the world as it truly was. Wrong. Erroneous. Mistaken and invalid, like him, just like him. And maybe that was why people feared lightning; though it seemed to be the most beautiful thing every created, packed with electricity and electrons so powerful it had the power to form minerals under the earth, anything it seemed to touch it destroyed or at the very least, seared black. No body dare touch him because in the simplest of words, he was bad for the world.

'Am I really a poet?' I ask
While my fingers are giddy over the tissue paper I let them sweat their stress away on
They're my blue charade on a white strip of lifeless glamour.
When I first decided I would attempt to be a writer,
My words tried to escape my lips and I was forced to swallow them back
Because I heard somewhere being a writer is bleeding through your fingers and drumming away the pain on dry,  chipped lips.
I never knew why my throat always ended up being sore though
As I never knew silence could be so draining
And maybe its a lie when they say its a quite remedy
False advices pored in to our needy hearts
Trying to mend them back with watered down clay
That we never let dry in the sun for fear of exposing all that was hidden.

If you pushed on a glass case made up of your own reflection
You'd sink past the treshold
Because you'll have nothing to cling on to
Except for the rope you'll be forced to wear around your neck
Like the 24 karat gold that chokes the breath from your lungs
And when you finally gasp out the waste that's slowly suffocating
The pores on your skin
You'll realize it was your fingers preventing you from breathing.
So keep your hands steady on your laps
Dare they find the rail hanging by the edge of "salvation"
Lest they pull you to freedom,
Swallow the key chain with its thousand keys dangling from its waist
Begging release,
Ignore the belt encircling your feet and the stone you've tied with it
For the river is merciful and the tide forgiving.

If you jumped from the bridge by your window
Don't look under
It'll only remind you of the edge your not standing on anymore
And the cold, freezing depth
You'll remember forgetting the stories under your bed
With the letters you've never received
So hold on to "ignorance" for as long as you can
Because it makes such a close friend
While it stokes your hair and lulls you to bed
and when you finally let go of the crippling end
walk back to you with your broken leg

I can only break down thoughts bound as 'uncharted territory'.  They're frail between my fingers. They're gullible; much like my opinions and like them, they require constant tending, caressing, bending and even fending off the nightmares with out the night.

But with out the night, I am speechless. My lips betray my heart with its secretes and signs the reign over to my mind. And still my mind struggles with indecision, vexed over the right punctuation and where it was that it thought to put them.  It's much like the blind led by a wire coiled around its waist, while the ears had been sharpened to the sound of whiplash.

Perhaps I have grown too used to the whip and my fingers accustomed to the rein, mastering the art of drawing lines on my back with words you might not be ready to read. I am an artist in my own way even though my work has never been displayed infront of admiring eyes, even though curious fingers have never glided their senses over my canvas of dried paint and marble. So all i can plead from you, darling, is to forgive my enigma and with it the years of experiences it took to construct it.