~


I try, I swear I try,
but you are always there,
touching my thoughts with wonder,
bringing desires to my mind
on endless wishes
cast upon continuous ripples,
rapidly forming with every breath I take
~
Morning brings the sunrise
in multicolored shades of how I feel
Reaching for that lost love,
floating like indigo butterflies
just beyond my grasp, though
I still want, with every ounce,
every movement, every hope
~
I have been told
I long for what I can not have,
that elusive bloom
at the peak of the arbor,
radiant beauty washing down upon me,
fragrant reminders of a time before,
when your petals gathered at my heart
~
And try as I like it is of no use,
my mind holds you, desperately dreaming
in echoed whispers and twilight shadows
which never seem to end
For as long as there are butterflies,
honeysuckle breezes and poetry...
*there will be you

Bad ideas are my favorite ideas.

Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's  being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news,  printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.

Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And *** leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.

When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.

There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.

Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.

So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

3 am and my heads spinning. My thoughts are all over the place. I'm on a thin line between feeling too deeply and not feeling enough, I can't tell which is worse. They're equally equivalent it seems. "I ****** up, I really ****** up." I can't stop telling myself that. You're kisses that used to be so sweet, just seemed so wrong this time. "why did I just do that." The way you're breath lingered on me used to drive me crazy, but now it doesn't. I couldn't stop thinking of me thinking. How did I get so lost, why doesn't it feel right anymore? You used to feel so right to me?

How can something so bad, be so good. Your touch, your smell, your kiss, electrifies my soul. The thought of you grabbing my hair, and grabbing my heart makes me ache. "You're no good for me" I constantly tell myself. "We're nothing, and never will be" I remind myself. "You never cared, you're all wrong for me" I can hear my conscious screaming. Everything in the world is urging me to stay away, but every beam in my body is telling me to go closer. Why are we so wrong, but why are we so right?