love

is more pain than pleasure


yet we treat it like treasure

she is on a plane now.
the void you've left is now filled with memory:

I think about when we met, out there in the cold,
walking in circles beside each other.
I was trying to be brave but you spoke first.
"Hello."
And then you looked at me and smiled
and my heart imploded.

i am tired
of this old routine
what does it mean?
ask the mayor
or the minister -
im sure their answers might be sinister
but why should I care now
when i never have before
because i see a little piece
which is a little less plain
than the traffic and the cranes
building more for my complaints
i am strained
i am trying to retain
but the knowledge i have gained,
it is vain and retiring
i am fine
just fine
just tired and trying

stop 3 seconds
wait your turn
signal left
hit the petal

spin the wheel
look both ways
yield to on comers
delicate metal

follow the limit
slow and speed
this gasoline
is human greed

her house was burning all day long
and when she came to it after school,
one wall was left amidst the snow and ash.

her life had been in there;
her belongings and the finites that made her.
and now they were singed in smoke and dust
and they were nothing -
and she felt like nothing.

the fire burned obliviously,
orange and black and victorious in destruction.
it ate her being in one fellow, steady burn,
until her memories were held in a winter urn.

and she left that morning, from home.
and when she returned, her home was on fire.

listen -
to your voice;
many run through your head
but don't you know how impenetrable you are?

our house is old
our house is new
the counters were green,
the walls, blue

our house has plastered walls
and a brick fireplace
and an old, yellow room
coloured with distaste.

our house falls apart
and you fall down too
painting your heartbreak
into the blue.

you think I can't hear
what you feel and fear,
but it's all too clear
that you're falling apart.

armor, stiff
a sword and skiff
black eyes
beard bathed in blood
and it's never enough

the thrill to ****
like ink and quill
both bleed and brim
and slice and trim

the knight
huzzah!
the pages yell
below the stages
with wooden weapons
and hungry eyes

he'll fight for queen
or country
or fun
he'll drag you down
throughout the town

his mother prays
his father's gone
his brother's train

the knight
he has no guilt left to cry
a quilt in the night
will muffle his fears
drowning in beers
until the kingdom falls,
a knight's knighthood calls!

and though, I know, the winter comes,
I see the paint upon your thumbs,
the blues and hues of dappled thyme
that scar a world from a nursery rhyme;

and there, written, lightly, in pencil,
a paragraph for a time stenciled,
adjectives and flavoured truth
a place made up for our innocent youth.

i liked he
he liked she
she liked he
who liked me

l'appel du vide

I remember the wind,
howling, messing up my hair like invisible fingers,
hollow with ghosts;

I can see this memory in fragments.
you are there,
but it is your absence that I recognize -
it is the lack of you I see.

you are a star, surely past your name;

and that is me: I am born of dust, you of light.

there are two sides of this moon -
one has always been cast in darkness,

and the other,
a mirror for the sun.

but she is ethereal, though she takes all light and dark

and she is steady, though the tides she turns are monstrous

and she is encompassing, for without her we would have been cast in our own shadows.

she is battered with asteroid collision, entrapped in this gravity,
protecting the mother that kills itself.

I am a product of collision
an incidental incision
A dead flower rotting in its own soil;

and so, I shall be dust returning to dust -
a product of myself, collapsing like the stars that made me.

yes, I am unlimited;
like a record
doomed to replay
its brokenness
forever.

I will not break,
I am the friction of fire
and ropes tethered to cement
and anchors shattering coral.

I am unlimited
unlimited
with limited time
and limited self.

but yes, i am unlimited -

there is no purgatory in regret
only to drink from the Lethe and forget

even with these masks,
there's always someone who sees your face.

today is always today
but tomorrow it will become yesterday
and we will be given a new present
do not forget these moments

I am a cat.
Curiosity has killed me.

i lived in the valley of butterflies
and it is now winter

Let me be a stranger to the consistent licking of melancholy
For her's is an anchor that I can just quite out swim.
It is tiring.

he eats all the guilt like inhaling air
i wish he would taste his innocence too

i am living the days a prisoner lives where every moment feels the same and nothing is exciting.
i am locked up in a pretty scape of land
my dreams are made of sand
and castles crumble
and my own hands are numb
the brand of illusion.

dystopian

where there is love, there is also pain.
but where there is love, there is hope.

in my coffee *** of dreams
where the flowers wilt and die
there are pennies and they gleam
with the light of Luna's eye

i am the pollen of a poisonous flower;
carried by bee
made into honey
collected by keepers;
unintentional reaper.

Though she was illiterate,
her eyes closed and her mouth opened,
and from her lips sprang melodies that would easily appease Apollo.

did I ever tell you what I saw?
she was there, sitting, still and blush, looking like she had been shot and she was frozen in the moment the arrow had pierced her.
she was chained to the world, while her heart wandered below.

and did i tell you the things I would hear?
nothing. silence. in the air, there was nothing. I swear if I placed my ear against her chest, I'd hear nothing but the begging of her vessels to cease their tiresome beating.

what I tasted?
the breath of her lips was from that of a stilled lung and dry lips. stale and pale as a ship that sails over tides and beneath wales of a frail moon.

touch?
I could touch nothing around her, or she would shatter. The wind was like a hammer to a nail in glass. The utterance of a single songbird would echo into her grey eyes and boil her to dust. Not magic, but a curse.

scent?
it smelled of lilies, and nostalgia. and each memory was a traitor which made her question, "How could I ever have trusted you?" For memories are blossoms one happy moment but bruises the next dreadful one. Often, we forget sunshine when it rains. Often it is when thunder strikes that we cower in the absence of blue.

who am I
who am I
who am I;
I feel like a flower, forgetting rain while it is sunny.

Tell me different things thousands of times;
if I am melting in the heat of the sun, falling to the ocean, I should think it wouldn't matter. Even if you bid me peace.

Like the river encircling the boundless world, so too is the depth of the sky, unending, and so too are the waves, a reflection and a window to the holes of our world, bottomless.

the language of my love

                                                        it's you

goodnight stars,
tomorrow I shall know the Sun -
its warmth and fire

I speak of hope
like the dawn it comes, there, on the horizon