Some of us here, write about hope while others write about pain.
Some of us here, write about love and that which keeps us sane.

Others write about Death and the souls she just adored.
Penning out their sorrow, the mournful cries strike a chord.

Then are those who write about things and faces that they know.
Describing perfect places, landscapes wrought with snow.

Me? I'm just here venting, it's a need. This urge to write.
Cut off my hands, if you please. I'll bleed a novel out of spite.

He kissed her goodnight.
          A brush of liquored breath.
"Sweet dreams, I love you."
          Slurred words of comfort.
He stumbles to the couch.
          In search of the bottle half empty.
Guzzling liquid to stifle a cry.
          Drunken thoughts hit him.
Sobs rise up his throat.
          No, just *****.
Heave after heave rack his body.
          Weak and spent he slumbers at last.

She's tired.
          Brushing hair away from his face.
She's sad.
          A blanket to keep him comfortable.
She's angry.
          Cleaning the mess so he wont remember.
She loves him.
          *"You're my best friend. I could never hate you. I'm here for you. I will take care of you. I love you."

words fell
    like broken
        glass
                from
your lips
                onto
bloodstained
                       carpet
lacerations
              searing your
bruised heart,
      transplanting
              its jagged rips
into mine
  beats sharply feathered
like injured
                wings,
angel eyes
   pigmented my color,
    blinded by a
cool sheen
hiding behind
                 tears
You are but a child,
young fresh entity
yet know the weight
of heavy
    and suddenly
nothing else
       matters
only your light
in my world,
however
         dark you get
nothing material
can fix it and I will
stop it all
to press
the button
          of time
and give
you
the
       world