And the ocean begs as the sand asks him not to stay.
"Please just give me a chance, I will wash all your flaws away.
You really have no idea how lucky we are,
Wounds this deep would normally scar."

But the shore resists him with each attempt that he makes,
She denies and watches as his waves crash and they break.
He didn't know why he kept trying so hard.
But wounds this deep normally scar.

It’s cold and quiet here, sitting on the moon.
Watching as the world spins by, making its rounds.
Even with the stars shining, there’s still a sense of gloom.
The beat of my heart and inflection of my thoughts are the only sounds.

Where are you, sitting on the moon?
Alone, I feel as I rest here, I’m afraid it’s true.
As I lie on the moon, cold and alone, I've begun to feel attune.
Though I’m afraid feeling alone would not change if I were with you.

A strange place to be, sitting on the moon.
You can rest with me if you’d like, this isn't beguile.
Though I am afraid we would not be able to commune,
I would not mind if you came by the moon and stayed awhile.


It’s cold and quiet here, sitting on the moon.
I've never felt more content than I do on this grey mound.
I would not mind a silent visit, even if you just passed through.
And as I took my final breath, I couldn't help but smile,
Sitting on the moon.

Sleep is why I'd rather lie
awake than realize I am I.
A mind inside a tethered lair.
A room sealed tight, taste the air.
So bold my thoughts say to me,
I need not speak, I write with ease.

I need not see, my eyes are bright.
My dreams are stale, my glare does bite
My ears so all that I can hear
Are the thoughts that grow inhaling fear
With this, a mouth that can and will
Devour hopes and leave me still.

I'll clasp my panicked thoughts together
My sense of touch is even better.
You know that I can barely tell
If this is real or life in hell.
So I'll try to sleep, with all my being.
As my brain is filled with agony...

The voices only quiet to a whimper,
They never fade, an arctic winter.
I beg of them most every night
While I lay awake and lose the fight.
Please, hold my head against the floor
Please let me sleep, forever more.

She was all the world a beach, laid out in a thousand story grains of sand.
Her thoughts, the constant crashing of waves along the surface of her life.
Her beauty, the gradient of colors created by the setting sun on the horizon.
Her strength, the tide pulling the ocean over her shoreline like a blanket to comfort the coast.
She was all the world a beach, laid out in a thousand story grains of sand.
And I wanted to read them all.

This isn't a poem,
It’s only a thought.
This isn't a poem,
My mind’s just starting to rot.

This isn't a poem,
Don’t read it like one.
This isn't a poem,
I just have no where to run.

This isn't a poem,
Please understand.
This isn't a poem,
I’m just another man.

This isn't a poem,
At least not to me.
This isn't a poem,
It’s just a place I can breath.

Waiting.
I’m always waiting.
  I lie awake at night waiting.
   I don’t sleep out of fear that I’ll miss it.
    I live in constant anxiety that I will miss what I've been waiting for.
  
    I’m also afraid that I’m not quite sure what I have been waiting for.
   I guess that’s why I’m afraid I’ll miss it.
  I guess that’s why I’m waiting.
I’m always waiting.
Waiting.

We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.
We might talk for a bit,
maybe even pretend like we don’t remember what happened.
Maybe we’ll run into each other in a coffee shop,
you with your new love and me with mine.
We’ll act like old friends should,
but your familiar face won't carry familiar feelings.
To know I've been replaced is disheartening.
To think about what we once were makes me wistful.
It’s even more sombering to think of what we are now, strangers.
How is it that someone who once meant so much can become nothing more than a stranger?
Emotions are now rendered into nothing but memories.
Memories are now distorted from hopeful wishes.
Hopeful wishes are now abandoned like a coin into a wishing well.
Yet even after everything that happened,
I can’t help but hope that somewhere, somehow,
We’ll meet again some day, once again as strangers.

And I think the part that hurts the most is that even though I jumped through hoops for you,
Even though I emptied my wallet, and spent all the ink I owned writing pages of poetry for you, and through all the nights where we drove for hours into the silence, singing our broken hearts out, spilling our worries out of the windows of my car as we escaped into the unknown, and with all the nights we laid under the stars and just watched as they all burned out into the sunrise, and the nights we spent sleeping in the back of my car listening to your favorite bands play through the stereo of those perfect moments, and after everything I did to try and show you how much you meant to me, to show you how beautiful you are, it all meant nothing to you, and that’s what hurts the most. Knowing that the next guy that comes wandering, broken hearted and hopelessly, down your path, will hear the same story I did,
How no one cares for you and how you've never had anyone to call your own or anyone to hold close, and how everyone leaves, and how you'd give anything to find that guy, and he too will **** himself over you until you get bored of him and disappear once more. But that's how you are, smoke and mirrors, a cold heart and a shy smile, and knowing that no matter what stories you tell your next victims, I loved every last part of you.
That's what hurts the most.

I can feel the cold setting in.
Each morning is more bitter and frostbitten than the last.
The air and my thoughts are becoming stale, dry, and unpleasant.
The sun does not warm me anymore.
Like me it seems to have become weary.
The birds are gone.
All life seems to have abandoned this place.
Ice clings to my bedroom window, begging to expire in the warmth of a living room fire.
Smoke rises from the chimneys, covering this world in cold ashes and grey.
A life of color now painted banal and mundane.
I can feel the frozen air seeping in, slowly chilling me to my core.
With every passing night I grow colder and slower.
I have become eternally internally tired.
I end each dream embracing the boreal winds.
Ice evaporates into my thoughts.
I can feel the cold setting in.

And just like that the rain was gone.
The puddles were the only thing that remained.
They reminded me of the rain.
How it fell so beautifully,
How it spoke so softly,
How it left without saying goodbye.
All that remains now are the puddles,
Until they too wither away in silence.

Trapped.
Once Again.
Unable to talk.
Silent.

Panicked.
Once again.
Frozen in thought.
Mute.

Afraid.
Once again.
Gasping for air.
Incoherent.

Withdrawn.
Once again.
Crying for release.
Wordless.