Your name is a song that my heart sings
Our personal symphony
It gives my soul wings
The epitome of harmony
Lyrics of joyful things
I strain to hear more, ambitiously
Of the plucked strings
Which play a tune of felicity

If I could count all the stars in the sky
None would be as bright as you are to my eye
A dream I’ve had, a grassy green field on which we lie
Hand in hand, gazes shared no longer shy
Words whispered, no hint of when we’ll say goodbye
The moon hangs high
Just you, me, and the sky

so sweet are your words
that a stranger may believe
you’re speaking from a script

cliche as it may be
one could say
that we were stolen from a movie
__

your clothes on my back
warm around me
not your arms
but enough
for now
__

texts, phone calls
pale to your presence
the ghosting feeling
of your lips
is on my mind
whenever i see your name
on that small screen

climbing
              climbing
                            climb­ing
                                            
                ­                                     up or down?

                            falling?
              falling­?
falling?
                            
                              endless, always moving

       darkness          
                         
                              blinding darkness

You are the most talented cutpurse I know
For before I even knew it
My thoughts and heart belonged to you
But what makes you the best thief of all
Is that they were given so willingly
I barely recall a time when they were mine

To complete your rapscallion’s repertoire
Whatever locks once grasped upon my heart
You picked with ease and without a second thought
It’s contents laid bare to you
But a Robin Hood you are
You returned what you found to me
So we may share

I am a nothing
Merely a wisp in the void
A voice in the wind

Formless and ghostly
What worth can I truly claim
Empty hollow air

Pain or happiness
I am desperate to feel
Apathy is worse

With kindness and love
I am unduly blessed
Ingrate that I am

So vain to deny
Care so oft given to me
Truly a poor fool

Life is very odd
Giving precious gifts to those
Who least deserve them

Mystery it is
But it is not mine to solve
Only to lament

loneliness is a tricky foe
as much as you fear it
you are sad to see it go
because it makes known to you
there is no one beside it
who is always there
a constant companion
none more safe nor true

stability is admirable
desirable
but debihilating in the wrong hands
and pervasive loneliness
is a notorious abuser

thumping and pounding heart
terror at the thought of the unknown
to leave behind the partner of mine
who has seen me through it all
to move on is to shine
to move ahead is to dread

hand outstretched to hold mine
am i worthy of a finger interlace
when i lagged behind so willingly?
a question answered for me
by a grip on me so tight
what felt wrong was now right

friends of many years
both bad and good
are as hard to lose
when we walk side by side
between us still strolls that lonely phantom
but the distance closes ever surely
one day my path will be my own
if you will be there to see it
i cannot say
but it is clear
that my way was paved by you

A wall is a canvas
For my twisted thoughts to paint themselves
Into scenes of misery
As I lie there, staring blankly
I’m an artist
Painting portraits of depression
In the emptiness of my mind

Words find it in themselves to float around
In the empty plain of my head
Weaving stories of guilt and sorrow
In my mind I write epics,
Telling the tale of my own demise
An Odyssey, and I an Odysseus
But destined never to reach safe shore

Before me lies darkness beyond compare
An abyssal space, no end in sight

Yet before the pain I can no longer bear
To my eyes arrives a light

Without a form, a concept born of air
It’s outstretched hand I grab, and very tight

For me, this saviour is so rare
I must hold on with all my might

A person? ‘Tis is a title many share
For so long so wrong, now so right

A shroud of misery is no longer what I wear
My change so strong, I could take flight

Though slips into gloom and doom are not so rare
This life of mine is no longer eternal night

having the last word
is rarely as sweet as they say
what is seen as triumph
goes out with a wheeze
no ends are tied
no resolutions reached
not even a goodbye
unfathomable that it will be
the last you hear from me
a limp excuse
of a parting gift
many poems written
in honor of you
meaning nothing now
unable to speak again
separation so quick
painless and agonizing
nary a farewell
a question
an answer
“alright, thank you”

Feelings are an ambrosiac poison
All I want is more
And more
I drink and gulp until it dribbles down my chin
Then I lap up what’s on the floor
Like a desperate dog
Because my belly is a jug
Empty
But that means full of air
The air is polluted
I want it replaced
With hurt
With care
With sadness
With euphoria
With anything
Yet the feelings I consume are artificial at best
Weighing me down like edible lead
As I know their impermanence
And the inevitable repetition of the cycle
Tomorrow my stomach is yet again empty
And I shall scramble to fill it
Defining insanity
In doing the same thing
Hoping for something new

Climbing up my throat
Fingers like spider legs
Choking me from the inside

Heat that builds inside my head
Waiting for my brain to melt
Pouring out of my eyes

The scratching of skin
Biting my lip until it bleeds
Pulling my hair until numb

Angry gnashing teeth
Hot, sorrowful tears
Wails of agony

Maturing in what I do not say
Living in what I do
Manifesting in my every action
Reveling in my every nonaction

Quiet
Loud
Watching
Waiting

My nightmare
My crutch
My curse
My life

Creation
A brief, fleeting high

Word to page
Image to canvas
Filling a void in the world
When I'd rather fill it in myself

To create, I exist
If creation forms,
Then so must its creator
I am real only when my hands
Are put to work

Praise,
Acknowledgement,
To be seen not for what I am
But for what I make
Is the sweetest of deceptions
I am known, without being known
By what creations I bring into the world

The self is fictitious,
If only seen through one's fictions

I chase the joys of making,
Forming,
Breathing life into formless idea,
But fear dutifully follows joy
If what is made by my hands
Is found lacking,
Then shall I?

Where does the self begin,
And the creation end?

butterfly ***** have
a greater influence on the world
then any desperate attempt i make
the universe blinked
when i was born
the future on the horizon
grows ever smaller
soon, i will be forgotten