Should I curse thee,
Even as you brush me free,
Without a care in the world, without a thought,
Even as I lay here, wondering what I saw in you, what I sought,

Is it possible, that your words were true,
Or was it just your treacherous brew,
Just another sly snare,
Punishment for my fascination with your soul, the dreaded fare,
For revealing all, for baring my wounded soul's damage without a care?

Yet, as days go by,
With my endless sigh,
I feel that you are but one,
Another fleeting sun,
And even with your setting, I am but at a loss,
As my heart beats for no other, my beloved.

Just your touch,
A mere caress, a slight graze,
Sets me into a feeling, an indescribable healing,
The insignificance of my soul's bleeding,
Paling to the brilliance of your presence with my wound's sealing.

Without remorse, let us gaze upon another,
As brother to brother,
Or lover to lover,
Or dealer to healer,

With this contemplation,
Let us meet once more,
Even as we realize death is but a door,
To that harbor,
Where we will never again be forced to say farewell.

Perfection
can only come from the ones
who thrive for success,
who need everything to be just right.
There is no such things as
mediocre
or in between.
It's like life and death -
you're never satisfied with both.