The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet

she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave

she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together

when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world

soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies

and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash

and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow


x.

As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.

The sea is still today
It's cerulean blue and gold
I think of the thoughts it carries
Within its hidden folds.
Its touch is soft and gentle
It soothes the ache of years
But I wonder how many waves
Are made from fallen tears.