Balcony perch,
Romeo's known role reversed,
Juliet below in harmonious search,
What's a name really worth?

That boyish heart rescinds,
Others call it growth,
What of worth has he,
If not the love he's known?

Now here stands the man,
Or that is what's supposed,
Whatever happened to,
His storybook betrothed?

The way we touch no longer lingers,
With butterfly tipped and desperate fingers.
We kiss here on the dotted line,
Rent will pay in full on time.
This is not what he has read of love.
So simple to refuse,
The art of growing up.

If we're talking taking risks and ignored advice.
When falling to your lips heard,
"Boy, better think twice,"
I asked if stars hurt the sky.
To grant a wish this longing kid;
In making yours and making mine,
Slipped and closed the distance between,
You and I.

This isn't him,
This can't be the face he's left here,
This isn't the face he's used to seeing,
Solidified in the mirror.
It can't be the current one,
Or even close,
It's not at all how he recalls from the ponds he's known.
Not the one admired,
On crystal clear days,
Or the one sang with,
Through some humming nights.
Maybe his memory is just fogged up,
Maybe this reflection is just blurry from the showers,
They'd have burned others skin.
Still this can't be the face.
Not with the potholes for eyes,
Waning moons for lips,
And cliches for brains.
Or maybe things,
Maybe they do just change,
Maybe sometimes somethings sink in the earthquakes,
And are never swam in again.
Maybe sometimes there's no hope for reversal, redemption,
Or some rectifying light to right what's left,
Only hope in surviving the new.
I guess that's all there ever was.
If only he had it sooner,
He would have thrived in the old world,
Found melodies in the days and more mirror-less memories for the nights.
Only then could things be better off,
Different.

A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.

Your heart is not a bureaucrat,
waiting on tax returns.

Nothing is in writing,
nor verbal contract.
The only inking is flushed skin upon contact.

It is implied.
It's the high road.
It's when the bed shakes during a storm;
It's when the grass grows again in the morning.

I guess,
I'm rarely sure.

My life is on the clock,
It seems I'm cold and lost.
My life is on the clock.
Ticking my way to empty thought.
My life is on the clock
Inching, to fully dark.
So what the **** do I want?
I want you, to touch my heart.

A person's still a person, but they can still put the stars in your sky.
A person's still a person but if you're hurting, they'll see the scars and ask why.
A person's still a person but what if they can light up your life.
A person's still a person, but a person can be your purpose, in time.

I would like to submit,
What's your kink?
Dominate me,
If you want I'll bleed.
My heart will pump all the blood you need.
Take a sip,
Take a drink,
Take anything.

Boy meets girl, girl smiles so sweetly.
Boy falls head over heels completely.

You tore us apart with all these lies,
I wonder if he'll be surprised,
When he finds what your honesty hides.

She makes me scream on the inside,
But like,
The good scream.
The scream like the one you'd type out as "asdfjhkjgfdh'l;"
The scream you'd exclaim for ice cream.
That scream.
That's a pretty good scream mate.

Drinking on the phone is still the same as drinking all alone.
Put drinking in your poems,
People won't think you drink to sanitize your wounds.
People won't think you drink with no one else in the room.

Having a muse.
Is like spiritual truth.
Never before, will you be so amused.

Each time with my soul mate, we've forgotten to speak.
Maybe we'd score a date, but I'm ever so weak.
Confidence is all part of the mystique.
Beauty's only skin deep. But seems an important piece.
So people are seas, and there are more fish than just me.

Where has my sun gone?
Stolen by the moon.
                           
                       You were an eclipse.

I've never seen a cigarette,
Burn out so quick.

She actually makes me smile a lot.
I'm wondering if this feeling's lost,
I have a feeling it's not.