In the end you were only predictable in your unpredictability

It is a language I do not understand

Maybe we’ve met before, spent a lifetime together

An eternity passed under the sun

Isn't it remarkable, the way we can know ourselves by knowing others?

I have picked through my remains

And found pieces of you

I look at you and find myself.

We tend to ruin things
On purpose or not---
Including each other.

Wading through the morass of obligation

I tend to the fallow fields of being  

And like a tree from which we gather no flowers

Sad has been this life

Fated to produce no fruit

I bring you the burden of my longing
I am the wanderer without drink
And you are the pool of water
In my desert of desire.

I bring you the burden of my love
It has waited for so long-
(And there is no crucifixion like waiting)
It shall cover you-
It shall be the girdle of flame around you
It shall be the pyre
Whereon we shall perish

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

I have loved her more desperately than any god.

I speak of a heaven that only exists when she is near.

She is not made from my rib or my flesh — she is my very soul.

If she ever leaves the place in my chest I’ve now named hers,

I will lock the doors, pull the blinds,

But I will not turn out the light,

So that she can find her way back home.

I think the most insidious thing you could do
Is stab someone close to you
Then tell them their pain and anguish
Is the reason you weep

I live for the pain you bring me. I craved the feeling of being let down by you, because in some way it means we were close enough for you to hurt me.

You try to find beauty in everyone else, but I wonder if you have tried to find it in yourself. 

You are worth more than the tears that fell from your pained eyes at 3 AM

You are better than the nasty people who may have called you tragic and ugly.

You're better than the people who have laughed at you.

You are drastically better than the hate and sadness that eats at you everyday.

I understand how this hurt, this poison in your soul and how each day is a struggle to overcome it.

It may not mean anything to you right now but when you’re sitting at home old and grey I hope you look back at these days.

That's when you will have finally found out who you are and how strong you’ve become. So I know your world may sometimes cave in and you’re suffocating under the sea of hurt you find yourself in... but sometimes you need to create your own boat and find the high ground.

I hope you find it soon.

It is the baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe.
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, the indifferent judge between the high and low.

How can I fight the tide when the deep water held a curse?

It has drowned my every waking thought; but in dreams I soar, breeze-limbed and light.

When I woke, tasting salt, the waves were all about me and darkest night had melted into water’s grave;

But I could not swim, nor move or call out for help.

So I must die a thousand times until I am borne upon the sea that rages within me.

I can watch you from afar, because it doesn’t burn

You are as foreign to me as the stars

And just like them you have the insolence of setting me on fire when I get too close

I guess the worst thing you could steal is pieces of others lives.

You either hurt them or waste their time.

Definitely the worst thing you could steal is another's time. You just can't get that back and we're so insecure about the whole thing that people are convinced we have all the time in the world.

Still, even when we waste others time it's not as though we've made a clean getaway...that's the problem.

We never just take away from another, we always leave something in it's place. A vague feeling of emptiness. Black paint on a white canvas — nothingness that one can physically see.

I look forward to a time when cracks in the brittle bones of old age will hurt more than the fissures of a broken heart ever did. Only then will I know I’ve lived.

Little one,

You are resilient, you are compassionate, you are generous, you are brave.

You are so much more than your lovely bright eyes and mischievous smile.

You are hopeful and stubborn. Surprising and curious.

You have too long loved those who thanked you for taking up so little space.

You were made for more.

You are ready for more.

Ask for more.

"Your hair is a glimpse of home
   Yet when it's wet...
     It's heavy..."

He wrapped himself up in deep umber waves

Dug himself into deep, dark loam

Yet still floating away in a sea of strands

Sheets of passion and poison

"It was a secret nesting in summer scorched brush."

Fragrant and Supple.

His ***** cut the Earth. He watered thick peat.


Together they would slink down dark alleys, cowered in grease covered corners.

He hit her...

She snapped at him...

He chased her salivating strands, rich auburn coat glistening.

In the late afternoon heat she submitted her secret.

He howled his hurt...
An animal infected with rage and confusion.

*

He said, "I have a 5 o'clock flight to help fight the cause." She said nothing. He swept back her tide of soft auburn...wet her with salty fear.

She stepped away slightly...
   He shuddered...
      He disappeared...

Imagine looking up at the sky and seeing billions of stars.

Wouldn’t you be awestruck?

That’s the way I feel every time I look into your eyes.

I remain completely captivated by someone as foreign to me as the stars

I have come to find that those who deserve love find it the least.

But...

The same could be said of those who should love themselves the most.

Don’t ask me why I treat you like a work of art.

Don’t ask me why I never write poetry,

You believe you are another ***** face and I tell you inspiration is a tricky thing.

Maybe I just haven’t had the time really...

But really it is more like my mind is a cluttered room...

I lie awake at night and try to find words that could not be said.

Dawn approaches just as it does every day, and I think:

"I like you this way and any other way just as I enjoy the sun in all its forms.

You would not ask whether I prefer the sunrise or sunset."

Sometimes we are Van Gogh,
scattering autumn leaves,
soul pulsing with fire,
inverse of a Starry Night.

Other times you are Da Vinci
I am your flying machine,
The stuff of my wildest dreams
soaring on high...

I try my hand at Michelangelo,
pressing fingers into your palm like cherubs
Rising up to brush my lips 
across your blank canvas cheeks.

Picasso appears in my dreams,
twisting us like clay,
he drowns us in shades of blue and we are sinking,
     sinking...

Don’t you hear it?

The sound like a hush running through the dim sky.

Like a whisper echoing across a grassy field.

I hear it.

It calls to me with these words:



"I am here."



Then the rain comes...

Poems are never just poems. They’re compensating for something. Here are the words I wish I had written. Here are a hundred words for “stay,” and a hundred more for “please.” Here is how I hold a pen. Here is how the pen holds me. Here are my thoughts, over-steeped in empty fervor. Here is nothing and everything all at the same time.

THE TOWER.
Beaded curtain shimmers,
Crackles under hesitant touch.
Steady voice beckons you in,
incense clouding your nose.
You are still unsure if you will find veracity here.

THE KNIGHT OF CUPS.
Let your essence pour from her lips
and wonder if she can hear your thoughts.
She can pick apart all the tangled wires
within you, paint a breathtaking mural
with the colors swirling in your blood.

THE TEN OF SWORDS.
She reminds you all things must end,
that too much insight can become dangerous;
one might fold inwards,
crumple like thin paper.
She says,
“it is not necessary to know your entire self,
lest you spoil the ending too soon.”

The day is about to start and the sun will rise whether we want it to or not.

It will run us over, crushing us by initiating a new day that we are not ready for.

It will leave your thoughts behind in the night.

It will not grant another second of rest or heed your protest.

It will climb over mountainsides regardless of your lament.

It is merciless, the controller of time...

Maybe it is saying to us “keep moving” and that we should abandon living in the past...

Whatever this reoccurring phenomenon symbolizes: The forgiveness of time or the perpetual onslaught of obstacles —

You should know if you don’t believe you can make it through to the next day, that I wish the best of luck, and a good morning