There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

Mistakes are something we are forced to live with.
More so than scars or badges of honor.

And that's a good thing. As long as we live with our mistakes, we won't repeat them.

But does that matter to those trespassed against? To those the mistakes were committed unto? No. And it shouldn't, the mistake is what matters. And the one in the wrong isn't the only one forced to live with.

Mistakes often come about from selfishness, and selfishness serves no one, abides by no biddings.
As it shouldn't.

Forgiveness is a hard fought battle for humans. Forgiveness for yourself, lovers, friends and enemies. They're all hard to come by and must be striven for.

The ache that's been lingering between my eyeballs the past twenty four hours is constant and stabbing. That's where I'm keeping my mistakes. Somewhere that will never be out of site or mind.
This mistake is large and so my whole body aches. No, reader, don't say you're sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for and I deserve the pain I feel. I deserve the back of my eyelids swimming with images and my ear drums ringing with a single sentence and I want to apologize every time i hear those words. Those words are for you and for me and I will keep them and they will make my body stimulated and tense until I have forgiven myself.  
I don't want to forgive myself. I don't deserve it, just as you didn't deserve to be the receiver of my mistakes.

I promised myself I wouldn't write this.
My will power is week and
I don't know, I have a thousand more things to say but they only matter to me and so I shall keep them.
I hope for three things;
The first: you're happiness and well being
The second: you're friendship.
The third is selfish and so I shall keep it to myself.

I can be alone.
I spent two years perfecting the art,
and I may spend some time practicing it.

I just hope someday the phone will ring,
and that the caller is happy and healthy
and whole.

as i try and craft my speech i stumble
as it comes out of my mouth i mumble
i fear rejection for i do not think very highly of my self
relatively humble.
oh how nice it'd be to get this girl to smile and fall and tumble
in love. her curly hair
id adore her blue eyes and say i never stop admiring.
hair so pretty,i mean beautiful
prettiful

There's no point.




                            None.

I've been busy
too busy to write.

I'm too busy loving you to write you the love poems you deserve.

I'm too busy working so I can have money to buy you the things you like to write you the love poems you deserve.

But I'm going to continue loving you,
continue kissing and holding you,
I'm going to continue being yours.
I'll never be too busy to love you.

Who needs love poems when you're in love?

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

Two weeks drug free.
I did it for myself,
I did it for my sister
for you
and for her.

Cravings don't wake me up at night anymore.
I can hold a cigarette without my hands shaking
and I can look my mother in the eye.

Where are you to share in my sobriety?
Where are you to help me through it?
(Where are you?)