I'm tired of saying, it's almost beautiful
The streets are cold at night, even though it's summer
And when I look you in the eyes, it's like their painted on your face.
I can never tell, which direction, they choose to fall.
Sweet kisses, those were the times.
I cut off my hair when I heard you were sick,
I figured you would need something to look at.
It's like I found a dream, except I'm not asleep.
Some intentions are too concentrated,
they'll dissolve if you get too close.
We're growing, too fast, in different directions.
Remember that night?
I was so nervous that I ripped apart her favorite book,
I wanted you to forget her,
all of her.

I read his poetry like Bukowski
religiously
I spent time drinking and *******

in protest to the aching inside of me
raking through old poems was easier
than writing new ones about the life
I was throwing away, because the
heartbreak was nothing but a wedge
drivingmeclosertothemistakesand
even further from the                       writing

I read his poems like I drink coffee
every morning
that I'm not feeling sick to my stomach
and I choke him down to spit him out
no longer masked or guarded
sparing courtesies
because the mysteries
weren't as mystical
as all the fantasies
used to be saying
it's good to look
and it's a privilege to touch

these lips ache in your absence
yet I haven't learned enough

the mirror has gone black
sinking back into the wastelands
of my ever heightened fright

all love has gone liquid
dripping and spilling in my sight
my hands soaked, grasping at the droplets
thoughts of you slipping through my fingertips

no longer equipped to "just deal with it"

happiness waits beyond bridges
through your gates and over your walls
pit falls, into quicksand and lava, where you live

madness // madness, this bliss // madness...

apathetic sanctuary // my mortuary

sing at my next funeral, I've a few more left to go