I hope to never grow old.
Of course not in a literal sense,
That's inclusive in the natural progression of time.
No, I mean in every other sense.
Passion.
That's what I fear to lose.
I fear to forget.
I struggle, conceptually, with its disengagement.
How can such an emotion wither?

The nights when I lay by your side,
Only to glance into the limitless bounds of your eyes.
That smile, oh that smile.
To not witness that smile would be a tragedy.
The feeling that I provoke that smile,
Engulfs me in affection,
And I fall more in love with you than any can believe to be possible.

Too see the sunrise,
And stand motionless, awestruck.
Its vibrant colors,
Grazing the memories of childhood wonder.
Reliving moments,
Once believed to be lost.
Holding on to a moment mercilessly,
Attempting to extend it to many,
To never wander from it.

To pursue limitless enjoyment,
Never forcing a smile because you don't have to.
To laugh at everything,
With everyone.
The recognition of simple pleasures,
All compiled in a scrapbook of memories.
One to be created at a later time,
Because you're consumed in remembering now.

But eventually,
You'll lose the memories you wish to document.
Because the sand of time slipped through your unforgiving hands,
And you forgot
The once vibrant skies,
Will fade to dull variations of the same tone.
As nature must be re-painted from time to time,
Which you forgot.
The laughs,
They'll fade to echos of your own,
With no one left to reciprocate such an intense expression of joy,
Because you forgot.

Unforgiving forget will consume that which you should've never forgotten.
Because as time grows old,
The body does too.
And as the past begins to wither,
The brain disengages.

As time progresses,
Passion does not have to be lost.
You do not have to forget.
The things forgotten are what you wish to forget.

I think the best part of it was the almost.
We almost fell for each other.
We almost had everything together.
We almost were,
But we never were.
We were always just an almost.

Alzheimers:
Noun
A progressive mental deterioration that can occur in middle or old age, due to generalized degeneration of the brain.

I remember, but I'm reluctant to use that word,
Because you are incapable of defining a memory.
You now know a memory as a fictional reality,
From which you formulate your world.

To me, It's as vivid as what's right before me.
The past, that is.
The only contrast?
I'm able to distinguish it from now.

I reminisce on the moments,
The ones where you'd call me your "special little girl,"
The ones where you'd calm the discord arising in the room.
The ones where you could recall my name,
The ones where you could identify my countenance.

I miss your smile,
The one illuminated by stories of the past.
I miss your stories,
Those of war,
Those of love,
Your memories,
They're gone.

Now, everything has changed,
You still respire,
But for no purpose anymore.
The air you inhale does not keep you alive,
It keeps you existing.

I still see you,
Materially, you're there,
But mentally,
You've been gone for years.
I can't determine if it's easier this way,
Or if it'd be of greater benefit for the both of us if you also retired physically.

It's not fair to you,
It's not fair to me.
The most arduous task I'll ever document will be this:
I am grieving your loss,
But you're still here.
I know this life is no longer worth living to you,
And although the life you've lived is priceless,
I wish it didn't have to reach this bitter variation of an end.

I always pictured you in further parts of my life.
My wedding day.
I'd dreamed of you there to meet my husband,
And soon enough, my children,
But I can't have that.
Not all wishes come true,
And I've yet to accept that fact.

But it's time for you to leave,
You want to go back home.
I want you to find peace,
But I'm scared to let you go.

I'm not upset,
I'm scared,
I'm hurt.
It's not your fault,
You are too.
The blames to give,
To this condition,
That wrongfully affected you.

Though you've forgotten me,
You'll never leave my mind.
I hope you know I'll always love you,
Even when you leave my side.

As the progression of time commences,
The birds chirp seemingly less ocassionally,
And their impression wears with time.

I hear the wind blow,
As it rustles the tree.
Carrying noises,
And various debris.
I open the shutters,
To embrace the wind,
But my thoughts go dark,
And my intellect thinned.
My ears hear whispers,
Intense and unkind.
All from the wind,
Through my open blind.

We were looking over the edge,
You pushed me off the wall.
Though you were there beneath,
I'd rather concrete catch my fall.

I made one once.
People didn't like that,
Circumstances change,
But your feelings don't.

Impulsive decisions are the worst.
They attack from behind,
You're forced one way or other,
And soon, you find yourself back where you started,
But everyone else has left.

Completely and utterly alone.
Nobody cares,
They pretend,
But true affection is lasting support,
Not temporary stability.

As soon as it doesn't align with their vision,
You're kicked to the curb,
Beating yourself up until your knuckles are raw and you cannot bear the pain of aggressive actions any longer.

Then, regret settles,
But it's all too late to step back.
You cannot heal the scars you've inflicted across the surface of your skin,
There is no forgiving,
At least not from yourself.

You're stuck.
You have to live out the decision you made,
You cannot change circumstances,
You do not make the rules.

Don't cry for yourself,
You're not worth the tears.
Every drop would be better off falling from the sky,
Not from your burdening eye.

Decisions,
Don't make them,
They're not worth it.


You're not worth it.

They let me out today,
The demons in my head.
Left the gate unlocked,
"Leave the cage," they said.
I took one step outside,
The sunlight burned my skin.
My body wanted to leave,
But my mind stayed in.
I've left the cage before,
Several years ago.
I escaped that time,
They didn't let me go.
As I left the cage,
Thoughts flooded in.
Thoughts of things I've done,
Thoughts of where I've been.
I got too overwhelmed,
By my presently haunting past.
I could've been their first escape,
But I always finish last.

Your heart was set on mine,
Or so you'd always claim.
Every time you messed up,
It was me who took the blame.
I allowed this to go on,
For a great amount of time.
Until one day I had enough,
I took back what was mine.
This action did not please you,
So you tried again, once more.
You said this time was "different,"
Struck the problem at its very core.
You'd made a little game,
Of catch and then release.
The tragedy of it all:
I didn't want the game to cease.

I've dug a deep hole.










Now it's time to bury myself in it.

Your contradictions lead me to think,
That I'm the only contributor plugging the sink.
It's overflowing, something's stuck,
I peer down the drain, it's filled with muck.
What you don't understand is I'm not the whole cause,
You're not either, but we both carry flaws.
I like to watch the water drip down the drain,
So I don't have to go out and get wet from the rain.
You like the thought of where it goes,
As you hear the sweet symphony the drops compose.
But these faults alone don't hold the drops hostile,
It's a compilation of things that put them in exile.
Please don't blame just you or me,
One day it'll clear and the drops will drip free.
But until then, we have to stay sane,
As we listen to the water drip down the plugged drain.

It was just before dusk,
Tomorrow in sight.
The darkened sky,
Lit only by moonlight.

The birds encircled,
Some unfortunate prey.
I watched from a distance,
This wretched display.

As midnight emerged,
The birds dove in to feast.
In a matter of minutes,
They devoured the beast.

The carcass was bare,
The birds elapsed.
I saw what was left,
And my demeanor collapsed.

Though the body was shredded,
The remains still fresh,
I could make out a face,
They had consumed my flesh.

And in the smallest matter of time,
My hair went numb.
My eyes no longer heard the crude respiratory patterns of the fellow cynic.
My fingers saw the over-appreciated path away from the now.
The mind I'd so delicately restrained surcharged your hurtful chatter for the worthlessness it possessed.
For I had found not what I thought to be the whole of myself,
But what actually was.
Among the wilted carnations,
The shrunken produce,
The wasted inquisition,
All the places in which you dwell,
I will no longer.

Of the highest building,

She sat on the ledge.
Releasing all thought,
So close to the edge.

As she leaned to look,
A man caught her eye.
Below, he was sitting,
Observing the sky.

As if in a daze,
He disrupted her glance.
He saw she was begging,
For just one more chance.

As one last tear fell,
Down the side of her face,
He shook in agony,
And picked up his pace.

One last choice to make,
Wiped away the tear.
She moved toward the edge,
Away went her fear.

Exhausted from stairs,
The man reached the top.
He opened the door,
He witnessed her drop.

Her feet left the roof,
All thoughts flooded in.
She hated herself,
Even hated her skin.

Completely aghast,

The man neared the ledge.
Unbearable thoughts,
So close to the edge.

As she neared the ground,
She regretted her choice.
She wished she had listened,
To her internal voice.

His feet left the roof,
And he began to fall.
He just meant to stop her,
From jumping at all.

She realized her beauty,
Accepted her flaws.
Too little, too late,
An effect to her cause.

Before reaching ground,
He thought of his past.
So much he'd not done,
Inexperience vast.

A child walked right by,
This unfortunate scene.
He now cuts himself,
And he's only thirteen.

A mom, with her kids,
Saw the tragedy too.
Hung herself that night,
The kids, first to view.

The victims' father,
Completely distraught,
His daughter, his life,
Now nothing but a thought.

Many months had passed,
His heath did decline.
Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep,
He lost his lifeline.

Of the highest building,

He sat on the ledge.
Releasing all thought,
So close to the edge.

He called for his daughter,
Thought he'd give one last try.
He longed for her voice,
He got no reply.

His feet left the roof,
And he began to fall.
He wished he could've stopped her,
From jumping at all.

The water in my faucet is red,
Because the pipes have began to rust.
I should've cleaned them out,
But the problem is I just..

I just couldn't return to the pipes because I always seemed to crave pb&j's when they'd come to mind and I quickly forgot about them.

I miss the once clear water,
I remember when it gained a tint.
I should've cleaned them then,
But I just didn't...

I didn't want the chemicals to touch my hands and make them feel the way hands do when they touch chemicals.

I should buy a new faucet,
One rust free, preferably matte.
It would fix all of my problems,
But the problem is that...

Is that it'd be a different faucet.

There's a hole in my wall,
It's been there a while.
You ask why it's there,
And I nervously smile.
You offer to fix it,
I politely decline.
It doesn't need fixing,
It's perfectly fine.
I like it there,
But you still insist.
If that hole weren't there,
I wouldn't exist.
You won't give in,
You are rudely persistent.
You assure me that,
It'll be fixed in an instant.
Do you fix it for me,
Or is it only for you?
Now there are left,
Not one hole, but two.

In an alternate world,
Everything was fine.
I could love them all,
The attention was mine.

The problem is,
That world doesn't exist.
I live in reality,
Directly in the midst.

My mind is erratic,
I can't take much more.
My heart is numb,
And my conscience sore.

For all these problems,
I am the host.
We've all made mistakes,
But I've made the most.

"When was the last time you felt happy?"
Well that's an unfairly complex question.
You see, happiness comes in two phases:
There's certain happiness and there's deceptive happiness.
I only know one, and that's where the problem lies.
Deceptive happiness is when you try with your utmost ability to smile, to laugh, to be happy because you genuinely want to, but the issue?
You've forgotten how.
You're forging complex scenarios, creating ideal circumstances, but you still feel sad.
So you smile, you laugh anyways because people do not understand what it feels like to never feel that way.
Do not tell me I'm depressed.
I'm lonely and heartbroken, and that is far worse.
So, do you see why I cannot answer that?
I can't because I haven't felt that way in a long time.
But you don't understand, you can't understand.
"I'm happy now."

Strokes on the page,
Wrists moving fluidly as it spreads and leaks across the surface.
You try so hard to erase it,
But we're not living in reality.
Your ink is permanent.
You don't have one of those fancy pens.
It doesn't erase like a pencil.
If it did, what would be the significance?

Pen is made to stain.
We've both been imprinted with the blemish from a pen.
Your pen leaks,
Not just on your page.
His too,
Hers,
Theirs,
And mine.

Sure, tear the pages,
Shred them.
Inflict any form of destruction,
But the ink will remain stained on the page.
There will always be existing evidence of you.
Of the way you so flawlessly allow your words to spill from your mouth to the page.
Of the way you inhale tense air and exhale a sense of tranquility.
Of the way your intensely blue eyes explore the progressional evolution of the materialistic world.
It will all be forever written on the page.

I know you didn't want this for yourself,
Nobody in their right mind ever would.
Maybe you didn't ever want me either,
But change in either extreme is inevitable.
I am not leaving,
No matter how hard you push me away.
I will stay to read every single word you expose to the page,
Even if it gnaws at my heart to be chewed raw.

You can try and hide your pages,
But I'll just read from your eyes.
I can see your hurt.
I can feel your hurt.
It makes me hurt.
It makes me write,
In hopes that my ink will influence the tides from which you view the world.

Please don't stop writing,
I want to keep reading.
Please don't try to erase the disfigurement from your work,
It's my favorite part.
Please find the sublimity in each sentence,
I see it, even if you don't.
Please don't burn the pages,
I think I might burn with them.

Tongue on tongue,
Swallowing love.
I hate kisses,
I just want hugs.

My mind blisters,
From the thoughts it contains.
To formulate their verbal representation,
I'd be tasked to break the restraints.

But what an arduous task,
To release such material.
When the thoughts are masked by cobwebs,
Made from freshly cut steel.

Now don't find it unjust,
That my words stay contained.
I yearn to share with you my mind,
But my will has been drained.

To encounter dismissal,
With my newly-found hope,
Holds the excess thoughts hostage,
In bitter pursuit to cope.

I don't hate you,
I just can't love you.

The decision came too late and the opportunity went away.

She was a monochromatic artist,
She carried grey on her brushes,
Grey on her canvas.

Years had passed,
painting the grey,
Until she met him,
on a casual day.
He asked for her art,
red engulfed her face.
She handed it over,
Felt her heart race.

As he painted atop,
her plain, grey work,
She noticed his quiver,
his subtle quirk.
He shook with excitement,
for what he created.
The strokes of his brush,
what they effectively stated.

The canvas flooded with color,
vibrant blue and red.
What once was just grey,
was every color instead.
He shared his paint,
and together they painted.
Hours, days, weeks, months,
they were quickly acquainted.

It soon became time,
to get on his way.
He packed up his paints,
left the next day.
Soon after he left,
her work began to fade.
What was once turquoise and magenta,
again became stone grey.

She carried grey on her brushes,
Grey on her canvas.
She was a monochromatic artist.

In my garden,
I've planted a seed.
It took a while,
But eventually sprouted a tree.
I would sit underneath,
In the relief of shade.
It was the hottest summer,
The sun had ever made.
I pondered of things,
Untold and unseen.
The tree would support,
My back as I lean.
As the winter dawned,
Something happened.
I stopped visiting the tree,
And it gradually blackened.
The tree grew old,
I did too.
It was there many years,
But I visited it so few.
That very tree,
That had kept me cool.
Held on to its life,
Although life is cruel.
It held on for me,
And that I can't repay.
So I'll set it free,
I'll walk away.
The tree has many more years,
Than I.
I'll hold it back,
If there I lie.
Someone will come,
To take my place.
But until then,
That tree will hold an empty space.

If I had the nerve to tell you everything,
I wouldn't know where to start.
I could tell you that you're handsome,
You always are.
I could tell you that I love you,
But you already know that.
Maybe even the fact that you're my everything,
But you wouldn't believe me.

If I had the nerve to tell you everything,
I wouldn't know what to say.
How would I tell you how alone I've felt since you left,
Or how much I hate myself for falling short.
But most of all,
I'm afraid to tell you that I'm terrified we won't work.
I'm terrified to lose you.
I'm terrified that if we endure this distance and I'm denied again,
You'll move on.
You'll find someone better suited for you than I.
You'll stop loving me.

So, thats what I'd tell you:
I'd tell you that you're handsome.
I'd tell you that I love you.
I'd tell you that you're my everything.

If I had the nerve to tell you everything,
I wouldn't.
Because I don't.

"Pick your poison."
.
.
.
You.

Motionless they sit,
Collecting dust on the shelf.
Completely inanimate,
An honest reflection of oneself.
I grab hold of the string,
No audience, no stage.
Now controlling this thing,
With my uncontrolled rage.
I give it a tug,
I crave the control.
Enacting a shrug,
I tug and I pull.
I've given it life,
I can take it away.
In spite of my strife,
It's now back on display.

I was late,
Frantically running in hopes I'd make it to the meeting on time.

I was distracted,
Not worried where I was going, but worried about when I'd get there.

I was careless,
I stepped on the flower in the crack of the sidewalk I so carefully appreciated in days past.

After the meeting, I was released on a lunch break.
There, I ran into him.
A man of broad appearance, yet short structure.
A man from work who had a meeting proceeding lunch.
As we talked, time seemed to slip from our grasp.
I took the journey back to work on foot, while he operated his motor vehicle and realized:

He was late,
Frantically driving, swerving in an out of lanes, exceeding speed limits in hopes he'd make it in time.

He was distracted,
Checking his phone for updates on his current situation, he ceased to notice he was headed into the crosswalk.

He was careless,
His seconds of fatuity caused a mistake that could never be withdrawn.

The smile he carried just moments ago was now contained by the gentle housing of his lips.
Creases dawned from the furrow of his brow, caused by the saturated eyes he wore beneath his languid eyelids.
As the time between his inhalation crescendoed, mine slowed to a stop.
He stole my breath.

I was late,
Frantically gasping in hopes they'd arrive promply.

I was distracted,
Not worried about who was coming, but when they'd show.

I was careless,
Here I lay as the flower, once alive in a dreadful place.

I like the silence,
The *****-less waves,
Its shaded vibrance,
The calming rave.

I like the silence,
The barren dread,
I like the silence,
That sits in my head.

As the light in your eyes faded,
And a smile on your lips never dawned,
I noticed you'd fallen out of love,
To which I had nothing to respond.

Stress.
That's what the doctor terms it.


I'm stressed,
And it has everything to do with you.

I realize I'm not something to everyone but it hurts not to be everything to someone.

It's still a functioning heart,
Motion running through it's core.
But a beating heart is useless,
When it's lying on the floor.

I want to be wanted, not used.
But I won't be and that's all I'll ever be.

Your silence was all I needed to hear.