It seems as though
I always want to talk to you
But our conversation comes at a cost
Because every word spoken
Puts me one word closer
To the last words I'll ever say to you.

With hope I could forever speak
With reason and love aimed at your heart
Taking your ears and making them listen
To what I need you to hear
Before you cannot hear anymore.

Carefully I select the sounds I speak
As not to choose the wrong ones
Picking silently in my head
The memories I would like to leave behind
In every moment I spend with you.

I know the last words I will say to you.
They are in my head now
Dancing on my lips
Teasing your ears
But I will not say them.
Not now.
Instead,
I will say them when it is time
For them to be true.

I do hope, however, that when that time comes
You will have already said them
To me.

The drifting dream bound on a satiated sea
It can feel you letting go, if you wanted to
Into the ether I will walk with you
Just release that grasp on reality and come
into the cosmos and we'll be unified
Abstraction at best is the offer
Pull away and become everything
Spend the night; float away and be...

Here I am,
A silly little human
On this silly little planet.
And I have these...
These incredible experiences.
I have these earthshattering nights
Gazing into someone's eyes like they're galaxies
With my heart crashing against my ribcage like the tide.
I have these spiritual awakenings,
These end-all blossoming moments of total wonder,
And I could eat the world,
Swallow it.
I could be all of it
And it wouldn't encompass what I feel.
And I'm just this...
This little ant, here,
On a marble
Crawling with millions of other ants
All having experiences all over the place,
And I'm really not that unique at all,
And nobody really cares in the long run,
But god,
Spending a night in your arms rearranged me by the atom.
And that's pretty big
To me.

Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled

It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness

and refuse it a name?

What?

You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?

I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth

I think a dream
is more certain than life.
For when can I deem
life to really be true?

When in a dream
do I question its surety?
When does it seem
as if it is not real?

Dwelling in life
I am never so sure;
When I'm faced with strife
I ponder:  Is this real?

So how can I tell
which one is the dream?
Which is the spell
and which one is real?

In the end I remain
with a great sense of doubt,
no way to obtain
a reality.