and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it

We seek perfection,
our souls to be pure.
We fear God,
of not being good enough.
We fear hell,
of being in eternal torment.
But what really torments us
is the weight of these expectations,
for an idea made up in our minds.

We are running a race
so far lost
that before we are born,
we are a product of sin.

We are so enchanted
by this light; the eternal flame.
But the light is artificial.
An ideal constructed by humanity.
The phosphlorescent bulb
that lights our night,
and guides our way in the dark.

It ensnares us.
We blindly pursue the light,
like moths to a flame,
we fool ourselves
with desire.

We can never touch
this light. It is
the sun, the moon
and the stars.

But even the stars
we see in the sky
are dead,
when we see them shine
so bright.

Even the stars die,
wishing to be pure
bringing us beauty,
even so.

Sins are unavoidable;
unless you live a life
of mere content.
Instead we choose
a tormented soul
and are killed slowly
with the tantilising desire
of the unattainable.