my soul was hibernating
until gently roused by Your love

We’re all looking to do something real
And the words, you’ve got time
Are the biggest lie ever uttered out of the human mouth
What that really means is that we don’t know what to tell you, we can’t, first of all, the realness is too personal, everyone has their own version of what is real, time and space are relative to the observer after all, Einstein proved that, but only if all natural laws hold constant, and theoretically those probably break down somewhere after the age of 22,
No, you haven’t got time, time is an illusion, just like the trophy award ceremony where everyone wins and gets patted on the back for trying,
No, stop telling us we’ve got time, we’ve got time to flail in the wind, we’ve got time to do work, but finding the realness is beyond time, it’s the kernel stuck in the teeth of our soul, we need to water this kernel, and philosophically, everything we do may be watering this kernel, but in practicality, it feels like we’ve been going nowhere with all this time we’ve got, stop telling us we’ve got time and tell us to travel, to explore, to roam and push our consciousness to the brinks of the universe, tell us to be unafraid, not of the fact that there is still this thing called time ticking away minutes before we die, but tell us to be unafraid of what we might find when we come face to face with the realness, tell us to be uncompromising in our search, tell us to stay away from any who would tie us to the ground and care about anything other than the realness
Because we’ve all got time, until we don’t, then what are you going to say to reassure the disaffected grown youth? Sorry, but you had time, and now you don’t, we can’t coddle you anymore with stories about time and how not to worry about it, time to join the ranks of the real world. Make some money, stop wasting time.

As I close my eyes
my senses know no bounds
my body becomes weightless
and my joyful song resounds

I try to find my bearings, and
I hold on to myself.
I've never put someone so close;
My *self upon a shelf.

Every fiber of my being
has room to stretch and grow
my steps spring forward lightly
and my smile is wide, aglow!

So come unto me, siren.
Give me room to grow and fall.
Sing for me a beacon; silly boat
Is sinking slow.

I swim to you in haste
my hair flowing wild and free
and water courses around my limbs
as minnows accompany me.

And so we're freed by water,
Unalone and unafraid.
Need no more one breath to take,
Nor single blessing said.

Waking up feeling as if I were born tired
Missing the on ramp to the free way
lost in the alleys, back tracking

Rebelling against the Universe
I Slap away the open hand
and eschew greener pastures
for a land sewn with salt
I Lick the bitter taste spread across my cracked lips
and dream of loving hot sand
slipping through my fingertips.

I once bottled the wind,
and believed that lightning bugs lasted forever in a jar,
when the luminescence faded,
alone with an empty bottle and a jar,
I popped the tab open to release the wind,
a peacock feather flew from my brim,
away into the unknown.

I stared into the jar
and saw knives piercing hearts
My own heart began to bleed
one hundred barrels of boiling quicksilver
bathed in ache
contaminating my chest

exposed, naked in front of a mirror,
I took off my mask and stared into black shadow holes,
I held out my arms for 11 minutes,
index fingers pointing to Jupiter
raged with a primal yell and saw
the animal inside my face,
alive, quaking red,
a bulging flesh emersion of veins and teeth,
and shiny eyes that see into the night
breaking the bonds that tattoo our souls
Caged birds fly free
set ablaze the brown grass
where I used to lay

Lover, you lie
and the lie you deny becomes truth
because we are animals inside
and we want to feel loved all the time.
Prophecies fruit on the tree planted by forked tongues,
plucked and tasted
sweet,
yet are they hearty enough to fill you for years?

A fortune is left on the table,
there amongst the shattered pieces
of manilla cookie shell
It reads,
"In this destruction, see the meaning"

Longing lingers
like the smell of bonfire smoke
sealed in clothing and hair
Its the feeling for not forgotten moons
silently orbiting cloaked in midnight shadow
Wayward romances
with no tongue able to explain
why the open road suddenly narrowed and turned overgrown,
an impassable bramble of thorns
causing an undergrowth of unanswered questions
and muted yearnings

Hopeless Romantics,
how many heartbroken fill the ranks of the fallen legion
growing like spring corn to be cut down in Autumn,
giving their body to feed another,

Still,
a foolish day dreamer might escape
to the short rows awhile,
evading the sickle

Fire dancers born chasing flames,
honor bound to be burnt,
the skin bubbling and boiling sitting so close to the hearth,
yet these scars are precious demarcations of the heart,
where once possibility stretched endless before rosy eyes
like summer fields of wildflowers,

Wisdom knows that the wilderness must end somewhere,
although it waits to sprout beneath all,
yet there is sad magic in never looking around the bend,
not walking through the last stand of trees
to preserve the illusion of the forever forest

I am in love with you in the way that
you are my insomnia at 4 in the morning,
the one keeping me awake because my
body doesn't remember how to fall asleep without
yours quietly curled around it,
and my brain doesn't understand
why I irrevocably hate you,
or how I can hate and love one person
so much it makes my stomach hurt,
every moment I'm not with you I think
that the distance might **** me
because the sleepless nights and empty beds
breeding incomprehensible hatred
are just because I am
so
*******
in love with you.

if I turned around and started walking ten years back
ten years back into the past watching as everybody else
was walking past on their journeying ten years forward
would anyone be kind enough to point out to me my mistake
my mistake of going backwards only to eventually arrive
twenty years in the past of everyone else

One of these days, he's going to write you a song.

One of these days, he'll be sitting in a pub with the lights husky and his brain muffled, and he'll run his fingers over the battered piano's keys. They'll be slightly sticky - his won't be the only drunk hands that have caressed them.

He'll tentatively start to work at them, a melody will form as if by accident. It'll be nothing spectacular. It won't be awe inspiring. It won't be destructive. It'll be quiet. It'll be gentle. It will haunt you for nights on end. It will remind you of something you've heard before. It will be just like his love for you.

He'll forget about it by the end of the evening. He'll drink himself into oblivion because if he sees you in his mind one more time - your head thrown back, blonde hair around your shoulders, eyes so light and alive, he'll go mad. He wonders if he's mad already. He certainly feels it most days.

In the morning, he'll find himself at the piano again. This will be a different piano. This piano will be a work of art in itself, he'll wonder if he deserves to use it. He does, he does, he does.

He'll flex his fingers, his eyes will go to your bracelet around his wrist. And he'll play. His fingers remember what his mind doesn't.
It might be a long piece, he won't ever be sure if it's finished. He'll call it "In Memoriam" publicly. To himself, he'll title it "An Apology in Motion"

He'll wonder if you'd have liked it, if you had ever heard it.

You would have. You loved everything that he created. You would have told him this, one day.