He loved her, but his love was forced to buzz beneath the surface, like a deep pain under an ******
The day it would be relevant seemed to drift beyond possibility, but he hoped for it
And some days he awoke to it,
bleeding
A ghastly wound, once healed then torn open,
dreaming

Fire and ice, you and I... wet with wonder.
We tangled and tossed and turned.
Our passion was poetic,
the way I saw truth in your eyes,
the way your smile hurt me the right way, that sharp tickle of pleasure.
Our joy was boundless, our toil of love without measure.
Yet...
Our love was a tide that crawled back to the heart of life.
Our ebb and flow of desire and fulfillment bled
all over that designer rug.
I sit in a cafe obsessing over deadlines and profits,
but,
can I really forget?
No.
And when I run out of deadlines,
and when I don't profit from profit,
the memories will bleed into me from
the past like rain "inside" an umbrella.
I will break.
I will sigh.
My eyes will mist,
my head will cloud.
I will shake my head and wonder...
"Will you remember?"

You're born,
you live,
you die.
Is there time to evolve?

Sometimes I sit cross-legged and I hum,
and I congregate with familiars to hymn,
and I congregate with warriors to gym,
and I smash keyboards to poeticize,
but it there time to evolve?

I will not let you substitute my evolution.
It is not some rabbit evolves from hat trick.
It is not some ******* nothing to something odd.
I don't know what it is, but you're not substituting it.

It's something weird.

I can go insane and wake up a god,
is that not evolution?
I can fall in love and become superman overnight,
is that not evolution?
I am the ka-me-ha-me-ha fusion of my parents!
I was,
once as worthless and aptly sized
as the penny under your bed,
but just you wait (you know what I mean)
I became big enough to rob you of common sense
and maybe your cents (yeah, about those pennies... can I sleep with you?)
I became big enough to hurl mountains across lakes (warning: stated objects are proportional to ants).
I became big enough to be the most insignificant speck on the earth, but I could nuke San Francisco and you'd see my handiwork from the moon,
is that not evolution?

Evolution is the survival of the fittest,
that's right,
every football player could be the next evolutionary link,
just wait until the end of the match,
you might be the first witness ;)

Tell me I'm not wrong!
If you say the opposite, you're a communist... (see what I did there?)
Is that not evolution?

What exactly are we passing through,
to get from where I am typing "a" to you saying, "Why'd he choose 'a'?"
from all across somewhere else where I am not?
Mouthful? Mouth full of what? Imagination?
Is that not evolution?

I don't know where I am sometimes,
and then I pull out a cellular doohickey,
and I command a machine 100 times my size
that's somewhere where there's no air or gravity
to tell me where I am. Sometimes I threaten it,
"I'll give you the AIDs equivalent of a computer virus you,
you... you pervert! Yeah, I know you know where I am every hour,
of every minute,
of every second,
so... there!"
You've got to give satellites the what-for sometimes.
IS THAT NOT EVOLUTION!!!

I don't know.
I guess you don't believe me...
Is that not devolution? (See what I did there?)

Okay, okay, I'm not impressing you with anything,
neither wordplay nor swordplay,
neither hiccup nor genius,
okay,
I'll leave you with this.

What did the signing ape say to the other signing ape?
Boom.
(Is that not evolution...)

Love is poison,
love is love,
love is hell,
love is above,
when in heaven, God rest your soul,
when in love, no rest for you at all.

Love is the poison,
love is the antidote,
love is the noose,
love is the hymn,
when in hell, sing, sing, screeaam away the pain,
when in love, I'll come back again, again... again.

Love is death,
love is cure,
hate is doubt,
love is sure,
when in doubt, hold out your hand,
when you're sure, she doesn't taste bland.

And still, I'm dying for love,
because love is poison,
and I will love only when it kills me.

Words like "baby" aren't depressing
when you quench me like salad dressing.
You're the drapery in my soul
when I think I'm empty, you know I'm whole.

I rolled out of the womb,
a lump of clay, motionless, fidgets,
screaming for love.
I shambled through life,
a *** forming, cracking, breaking,
searching for myself.
What I eventually found was precious,
but to hold onto this truth proved to be a war.
The chaotic braying of battle subsided
when you fixed me with your eyes
and crossed a room
that seemed the length of an ocean
to pass your living breath into my bones
and I was as an instrument
in your hands.

I was amazed to find,
that I too am your castle in the storm,
that I am your raft over the deep,
and I am humbled
despite feeling so powerful
because something so precious
lies in my monstrous hands
and this brittle gift
is what bonds the bricks of my flesh.

Like a piano, you play me,
and all wonder why I sound so well.
They look to you and they know,
through joys and broken plans,
I'll be safe
in your hands...

So many hopes have
been laid to rest,
snuggling tight and cozy
where all dead dreams lie.

There wasn't even time to say goodbye.
Oh, my fighting spirit is now a sleeping spirit.
It doesn't wake to sweet smell of fancy,
to the buzzing of bees and all manner of honeys,
no.
It lies dead in the gutter,
or should I say,
asleep.

The only hope I have left, is to lie of the pain.
To wish away the wash of bitter taste
and lie away the bodies of thought and waste.
I have died too many times to count the carnage
and how I massacred myself,
past, present and future,
there is no more potential,
there is now just a rein
lying slack for lack of force,
the beast was too burdened...

There is a constant whispering.
Voices from a place I dare not venture.
My hands are bent and scarred, like twisted puppets.
How can I mend these broken dreams?
I can no longer traverse the seams,
now torn
beyond are the hopes I knew.
How do I mend the horses?

Is it not the hand of God that restores life
to dead things?
Why do his hands look like mine?
If I do not believe in myself,
how might I believe in him?