A vision of black,
Heads bowed,
Women weep as he's lowered into the ground.
His mother cried,
So did I,
People couldn't help but sigh.

The rain flowed beneath our feet,
Into the ground where he would retreat,
A place as hollow as hell,
Where he would never  fit in well.

I feel responsible for his death,
to his parents I apologise,
I wish to join him;
Every single day,
In the ground,
Where he lay.

Am I crazy?
I see people, who aren't really there.
They talk to me, whispering things in my ear.

Shhh,
Don't tell anyone.
They'll lock you back up,
No discretion, but you just have bad luck.

They tell me I'm psychotic,
And dose me up on meds,
To make me feel "sane" again,
Their lies I will be fed.

But I've been there before, I've seen the road and I've been through the doors,
Seconds feel like years when you're in an asylum,
Your heart they will pour.

Don't call me schizophrenic,
Because I swear that I'm not,
I know the people that I see,
Were  once alive like me.

She is such a sweet pale hell
That makes me touch myself
Pleasure dangerously close to torture
Eyes lit with the softest furies
Lips that melt the ice of my soul
Whips that chain my pain to hers
I cry out “all my verses are for you.”
But she whispers “I am not yours.”

you can swim.
but you wont get there.
you can try.
but you wont reach it.
my hands will turn,
and
stroke
and hit,
and
my legs- my legs
will pound like ribbons,
stretching out-
unending.

and then it will end,
no longer will I go.
and bone will turn to thread
and muscle to
heat.

and from the fatigue i will find it
reach it.

every bone a body, every muscle
a life
and everything....
everything water.
water stroking through water
combing
and
twining
to
one
water so intense
in
water so sleek-
so aware of every stroke
every turn
and every hit.

you can try.
but you can never stay
there.

Perhaps on an idle afternoon
when sadness lies heavy on chest
your eyes shimmering like crystal moon
upon my poems would come to rest.

Words of love and touching her shore
yearnings sharp as edge of knife
wrote my mind of twenty four
gathering all from a half seen life.

You flip the pages as years roll down
reach to where past high tides sailed
the ink flows soft as calm of dawn
in peace of void when heights are scaled.

You close the book breathing a sigh
your eyes are wet of misty dew
by then fallen twilight asks you why
the poet on the cover looks like you.