Why must I always think in verse?
Is it a talent?
More like a curse
All day long songs pour through my head
But before they hit paper, they're usually dead
A few survive, most get archived and others quickly deleteted
It doesn't take more than a couple of lines to know you've been defeated

Alone on the threshold of liminal space;
I come across all my broken parts.
Floating and thought misplaced;
They gravitate as I pass, and circle back to me.
All these years lost in a sorrowed haze;
I had forgotten the creases that create my happy face.
The careful weathered etchings,
Of the years where pleasure always bested pain.
My eyes see clearer now, but how much of me remains?
If enough to scrawl, these reflective letters
Then enough to walk, out through the hallowed halls
That entomb all the past attempts to rid the dangling darkness
From above my waking world.
Enough to run; towards somewhere, and not away from

My heart is no ashtray
It's more like an urn
It holds onto what matters
Long after it burns

The red sun rises, over this hopeful land of second chances.
Deposited from the darkness, out onto the desert sands,
I soak in the silence like a thirsty dish rag.

My calculations had been compromised
By a malfunction deep inside my sickened mind.
The wicked ways of the self-depraved,
Mutated my world to Papier-mâché.
A mirage of vanity and technicolor blooms.

Folded and twisted, while my motionless eyes were mused by the mist.

Oh,
How much I have missed, of life and of love.
Even these sands blossom with their own granular beauty.
And I am here to bear witness, to myself,
And to the many footsteps that wait before me.

A very good friend of mine once told me that
I sought meaning in everything,
that I found melancholy intoxicating.
She said we are like complete opposites,
but what she does not know
I also share some of her traits.

I bled through the words I could not utter,
stranded on oh-so-many-nights
I wish I was dead.
I sculpted my pain among the stanzas
and strangers’ bed.
I craved their wandering hands on my naked skin,
mapped every inch of it,
and let them make a shelter out of the shattered pieces,
but what she does not know,
I still sit alone with loneliness sleeping softly on my lap,
he often brings a backpack full of doubts,
and stories about the almost lovers.
What she does not know,
as heavy as it seems, there is a haunting
peaceful feeling
every time he is around,
knowing he couldn’t hurt me more
than just being with him.

What she does not know,
I still seek meaning in everything,
asking big questions, that no one has the answer of,
and I still find melancholy very much intoxicating,
that I often wander to the what-ifs world,
discovering the what should have been and could have been.
What she does not know,
that I am too in a constant battle to tear down
the invisible walls I’m surrounded with.

The waves of years that carry along,
our ocean of thoughts where memories belong;
Compel us all to do our part,
to ignite the passions within our hearts.

How quaintly do our treasures speak,
like stones that fall along the creek;
In mellow moments we sit and stare,
and wondering if we ever cared.

While looking back upon the days,
which sheltered us from sunlight's blaze;
As falling rain disperses each thought,
in cascading drops to cure the drought.

Our hearts and minds can be uplifted,
from spiritual notions which are gifted;
In heaven-sent moonlight from above,
the craving redeemed by eternal love.

And round and round and round we go,
our illusions parting like melting snow;
Life passes by but we've been blessed,
in ways that soulful winds caressed.