Even in silence
  there is music
    there is always music
no matter the depth
  of grief or sorrow
    there is always music
and where there is music
  there is love

There's a strange beauty in death
how peaceful a lifeless
body lays still
the calm expression on
the face of the departed
unknown secrets dancing
behind their closed eyes

Knowing that they are free
of human misery
no longer subjected
to suffering
and yet still connected
to our hearts
still remembered by love
still loved

And let us hope
they are welcomed
by whatever God
they prayed to
may they be reunited
with old friends
and family gone before
may their life
their beautiful life
be celebrated
and may they
be remembered
and loved
and loved
and loved

I am paralyzed with grief
sinking into unknown
depths of despair
trying to remember
how to breath

knowing the worst
is yet to come

cruelty smiles on
the nearby horizon
hatred is sharpening its nails
ready to crucify
anything in its path

history set to repeat itself
our haunted past
being dragged into
the present and future days

heavy is the heart that
must hold onto hope
throughout this darkness

that must love
in the face of hatred

that has to uphold peace
against the pounding
fists of violence  

so with heavy hearts
we must move on

and remember
how to breath

and breath

and move

on

and

on

It seemed easier
to fall in love
with a stranger
across the sea
someone he would
never have to meet
never have to be
courageous enough
to talk to

So he did...
or at least
pretended to...

his heart failed
to notice the difference
or at least
it played along

and he smiled
a sad weary smile
but there was joy
tucked into the
corner of his lips

and that was
comfort enough
to allow him to sit
in his solitude
without the need
to feel lonely

Could it be that
the God of Everything
was just a simple girl?
a girl that was not
so simple
a woman much more
than a woman
a God that could
extinguish everything
we know and love
with just a thought
let us be grateful
that there is a fierce kindness
twirling in her eyes
beauty at her fingertips
to create or destroy
how fortunate we are
her faith is in that
which she finds beautiful
what praise could we offer
what humble prayer
could we whisper
to her heart
what thanks
could we give her
for everything...

Love poems I have
  stacks of utter nonsense
   a plethora of piles
     of the ridiculous and illogical
True madness infected
    with rhythm and rhyme
I’ve wandered through
  stories of eternity
    found in simple kisses
I’ve watched tragedies unfold
  in the grains of sand
     at forevers end
I’ve witnessed heaven bloom
  here on earth in every step
    I’ve seen love take
and I’ve seen that heaven crumble
  and have been left with
      the heavy weight
        and the emptiness
          of nothing at all
and I have wished foolish wishes
  and I have sat with death
   and asked…

I have never been particularly
  found of heartache
    nor have I ever learned
       to handle it well
Is there every a better time
   to be melodramatic than during
       the dizzying heights
         or desperate lows of love

and yet I am still here
  by luck or miracle
i do not know if
  there is a difference
    between the two
I am grateful though
  to have lived
   through loves
     short days of eternity
and survived the worsts
  of its endless nights
I am grateful to have
  experienced love
    in every aspect
       it has shown me

every shy school boy crush
every devastating broken heart
every first kiss
every unexpected goodbye

and I have been here long enough
  and I have loved
     and been loved enough
to know that sometimes
   even though some loves
      don’t last forever
   somehow
     in someway
        they do

and isn’t that enough
  for me to know
that by some miracle
  In this life
I can truly say
I have been lucky in love

The first time I saw her
  I never would of thought
    a girl that beautiful
      would ever love
        a guy like me

But then somehow
  she did
    loved me more
      than anyone had before
         or since
loved me more kindly
  more sweetly
   more more
    than I ever would have
      imagined possible

And even though
  it didn't last forever

somehow

in someway

it did

to dream of mice dreaming
  to see things different
    than they are
to rearrange reality
  from this state of horror
    to something kinder
      more forgiving

a world absent of hate
   free of ego
    no need for language
      only soft silence
    and unspoken poetry
      harmony and music

no wanting of the wasteful
  no need of needless things
    all desires rooted
      to the heart of love

no more use for the illusion of time
  forever and eternity married
    in the palm of our hands
     day and night lost
      with the wildflowers dancing
        within our pulse

all our blood flowed together
  forming a river wide enough
    for the sun to rest in
      to float down

as we shed our humanity
   and become mice dreaming
     of ourselves
   kinder and more forgiving
     than we are

The night sky had a cup
  full of moonlight
and the shadows played
  in the fields
   and danced in the streets
the few sparce stars in the sky
  gently sang a lullaby
and the mad mad world below
  paused for a moment
    for only a moment
and though worn and weary
  I smiled
sleep would come
   soon enough
and trouble would have
  to wait for tomorrow
    to begin its brew again...

She came and went
  wandering from one dream
   into another
leaving behind small trinkets
  underneath his pillow

     the warmth of her smile
     the pulse of her kiss
     the ghost of her touch

and when he woke
  the autumn scent
    of her hair
      danced lightly
        in the air

he took a deep breath
  filling his lungs
   until his ribs
    nearly cracked
       apart

then exhaled
  and smiled

   a sad

    happy

      smile

and the details of the dream
  blurred and rearranged
    themselves
       and bit
         by bit
          faded into
            the memory
              of mist

she slipped down into his heart
  and made a small fire
   and kept everything warm

and waited
  waited for him

   to sleep

    to sleep

     and dream

       again

wrinkled velvet
  scratchy silk
a stain on the laundry list
   lazy verbs
     and mispronounced pronouns
language is a funny thing
  a vocabulary test
    on a lifelong joke
     with no punchline
strange how we can laugh
  at our own misery
or weep uncontrollably
  when we find our hearts
    overfilled with joy
it’s enough to make someone
  believe that maybe
   we don’t really know anything
     about all the things
       we pretend to know
personally I don’t pray
  to a this god
    or a that god
I have my faith invested
  in the wisdom
   of fairy tales
    instead of the studies
      of theology
but i do appreciate any conviction
  that leads someone
    to a life where they
      help compassionately
        give with generosity
          and love more kindly
what else do we have
  but this one brief moment
    this one long
     often agonizing
      brief pause of eternity
       to live this life in
why is so much worry
  about what comes next
    weighing down today
when none of us
  is guaranteed
   to see tomorrow
and what good is a future
  that ignores the rubble
    of the past
the absolute wreckage
  we have left behind
    in our human history
the truth of our mistakes
  has been whitewashed
   again and again
in every new volume
  of every new text book
rewriting villains as hero’s
  neglecting to write down
   their origins and crimes
there is a deliberate madness
  in this process
   an intentional poisoned thread
    placed in the binding
     of the pages
      the spine
       of the book
the truth is still there though
  bleeding through
   the page in braille
only being read by those
  who want to read it
those how refuse
  to let the truth
    of the past
      be replaced
       by a modern lie
but the masses consume
  faster than they learn
and we pride ourselves
   as intelligent
    crown ourselves
     as noble
arrogantly pointing out our ability
  of pattern recognition
while constantly failing
  at not repeating
   the pattern throughout
    our history
      that causes so much
        human misery
and I wish I could laugh
  but my heart doesn’t
   have the vocabulary
    to write a punchline
     in a language it just
      can’t find funny anymore

how childishly we make
  mockery of time
how foolishly we fear
   its passing
the common cliché
  of turning twenty nine
    over and over
until we find ourselves
  making the same joke
   at thirty nine
     and forty nine
       and...
as if ever new decade
  every new day
     isn’t a privilege
        a blessing
something we are
  not guaranteed
    not owed
     not all given
there is nothing to fear
in accepting our mortality
in learning that death
will greet us warmly
in knowing that it is
  the same with
    our last breath
      as it is with
        our first breath
each one a gift
   that can only be given
     by the passing of time
why should we
  fear the unknown
    the unknowable
to such a degree
that we allow it
   to take away
     to distract us
from the gift of this moment
  the every present
    passing of time
it will all pass and be gone
   in less than
    the blink of an eye
an eternity come and gone
  in the breeze
no matter how long
or short our lives will be
   in the end
     it will always be
      too short
        end
          too soon
let us enjoy each breath
that time allows us
gives us
as children do
gratefully unaware
of how childishly
we will grow

he had fallen asleep reading
and the book laid with the pages
pressed to his chest
he could still hear her voice
narrating the story
even as he snored now in his sleep
even though she was only imaginary
a small comfort of fiction
to keep his heart warm
through the winter of his bones

she rearranged the letters
as she slipped off the page
and slide out from under the book
and laid beside him for a moment
watching him breath
watching his chest rise and fall
watching his heart
  thump against his ribs
she sighed a small sigh
as she carefully lifted
the book from his chest
and closed it
she kissed the tips of her fingers
and then as soft as breeze
touched them to his forehead
she wanted to stay
to fall asleep next to him
to wake up in the same dream
but she knew if she slept
he would turn to smoke
and disappear into the bathroom mirror
she reluctantly stood
and took quite footsteps
towards the bookshelf
placed the book back in its spot
and ran her fingers along its spine
the book purred
and she smiled a sad smile
and spoke without speaking
and said “until next time my friend...”

she snuck out the window
and climbed up
and through the clouds
she sauntered and wandered
around the moon
and waited patiently
as her eyes hopped
from star to star
until she caught the glimpse
of a comet
and hitched a ride on its tail
setting a course
through an unknown time
of an untold adventure

she fell asleep in
the vast emptiness of space
and dreamt of dreaming
and somewhere in the dream
she heard his voice
telling a lie
a harmless mess
of obvious mischief

and they both smiled
a smile bigger
than any smile
could be imagined

there was the bittersweet smell
of mischief in the corner
of her smile
and in her eyes
he could see everything
that was good about love
and their was a delicate balance
of beauty and pain
woven into the warmth
of her heart

he sighed

knowing he could only imagine
doing anything other
than just imagine

as children we believe
there are monsters
under our beds
as we become adults
we start to hide our dreams
beneath them
until most of us forget
we ever had dreams at all

tell me
how many nights
has it been now
that you have slept
without getting any rest

being tired all the time
may have become the norm
but that doesn't make
it a healthy habit

wouldn't it be nice
to dream again
to play with the monsters
under the bed
to finally get enough rest
so you could sleep
truely sleep

some stand
at the edge of abyss
and hear music
enjoy the silence
know that it doesn't
always need to be ok
carry the cold of winter
inside their marrow
some feel this
is the last safe place
their hearts can beat
can breath safely

this is where I saw her
dancing with ****** feet
a recklessness to her pulse
a wild child
an old soul
a delicate being
something both
broken and beautiful

she never said
a word out loud
she smiled though
there in the darkness
despite the gloom
the pain
the grief
that brought us each here

a simple act of kindness
a small gift of love

I smiled back
and never said a word

what a strange thing
this mournful pain
this longing for what
and who we've lost
for those who are gone
to places we do not know
cannot follow
this heartache
this broken hurt
this bitter fruit
we dare not let go
a hollow sound
an endless echo
a voice haunting
our every heartbeat
and is it not
above all
beautiful by its own right
its delicate necessity
how through its pain
we are also made comfortable
to be reminded
how fragile this life
how little time
we have to breath
how fast our nights fade
as if it all is but a dream
a bubble about to burst
nothing but ants
marching towards starvation
and one by one we go
a cruel act of kindness
to remind those left behind
how precious
how important
how necessary it is
to love

her soft eyes held
a quite suffering
a delicate pain
a strange beauty

I wanted to reach out  
to offer a comforting hand
a quite moment
to let her speak
to let her fall apart
to break down
to let her be alone
without being alone

but who was I
other than a shy child
trembling beneath an aged body
scared of what I admired
terrified of what I might love

so I sat motionless
hiding beneath silence
planting seeds of future regrets
that will bloom  
into the words I will
have wished I had spoken

How am I suppose to read the warning signs
when I am emotionally illiterate
what I'm trying to say is
that I have never learned
how to deal well with heartache  

I know how it feels to have a weightless heart
when ever thing is measured by gold
my ribcage has a collection of nothing
but rusted pennies
sitting at the end of a bottomless dread

wishes that come true
sometimes have a way
of exploding like a dandelion

days of good intentions
can tumble unexpectedly
no matter how well
they are stacked together

the future is never certain
everything has an expiration date
wether it is printed in black ink
or a secret only the wind
and the leaves know  
it could be something as warm as death
or as cold as betrayal
or something far simpler
than we make it out to be

our own stupidity comes to mind
our careless behavior motivated by ego
and the ego does as much damage
when under inflated
as it does when it burst from its own pride

months and years of silence and solitude
has turned loneliness
into a comfortable home
a safe haven
free from the fear of things going wrong
a place I have no need to regret
the things never said
the people I never said those things to

and somewhere between memory and fantasy
things that once may have been
and things that never were
there is a strange place
that feels happy enough
what is love other than a feeling
a feeling of comfort
of warmth
of dreams
what makes it more or less real
if the heart is fooled
why not play the fool

something real imagined
imagining something real
if I whisper a name
I do not know in my sleep
or dream of kissing a name
I fear to speak
what would be the difference
when I wake in an empty bed
surround by the cool comfort of silence
if the feeling remains the same

maybe if I had read the warning sign
I would have known that
I don’t deal well with heartache

she handed me back my heart
without making eye contact
there was still a tenderness
in her fingertips
an unspoken apology
for letting go
a slight quiver in her voice
carried the words
that pierced through
the hollow of my chest

the tale of our forever
abruptly ended
the chapter cut off mid-sentence
the remaining pages left
longing for the echo of words
waiting to bounce back
from eternities edge
for any words to break
the uncomfortable silence

I cracked and I crumbled
until there was nothing left
but rubble and smoke and ash
and a pain as heavy
as it was empty
a pain that stretched
from the weak tremble of my heart
past the unknown year
of my inevitable death

I don’t remember much
of the pain in detail
or how sleepless the nights were
how bad the dreams got
I remember it hurting in a place
I believed it would never hurt again
hurting in a way
I never thought would go away
a hurt I never thought
I would be able to live with

time passed slowly burning
what would never be again
her ghost was on every corner
in every line
in every car at ever stop light
my body kept going
through the motions of life
but I was...

I was...

I really don’t recall
what or who I was
some fraction of who I use to be
and nothing of who
I thought I would become

eventually I flew out
to visit my parents for four days
to try and regroup and recollect
and rebuild and distract myself
those four days turned
into a week and then a month
and the idea of going back...
back to where both she
and her ghost lived...
well...
the month turned to years
and those years are still pilling up

I tried drinking
no....
I drank
I drank a lot
the days became blurs
and it stopped hurting
on the nights I couldn’t recall
or remember
but the pain was still there
still empty
still heavy
when my blood
was absent of *****
and my head full of longing
for the things that would never be

and time crawled

I fell in love with a new face
a new heart
and it was wild and turbulent
and short lived
and another hand reached
into my wreckage
and pulled out my heart
and held it for a moment
and it felt like love
and we played pretend
until one day my heart
was handed back again

and I remembered
the tender touch
of an unspoken apology

and life went on
and it hurt
but the hurt wasn’t the same
the pain was different
not quite as heavy
not unnecessarily empty
it bloomed in
the shape of lilies and orchids
and the air smelled
of a lost love
that wasn’t lost
and I breathed in
and exhaled

I opened a book
I once thought had ended
and I started to read the next chapter
that picked up mid-sentence
and love was still there on the page
though different
somehow farther away
and yet still deeply rooted
in the pulse and rhythm
of the blood living and flowing
in the chambers of my heart

I’ve seen you sitting quietly in the corner
of coffee shops and bookstores
watching the world turning all around you
I’ve heard the nervous shyness
in the soft sound of the words
you rarely speak and the words
that never quite make it past your throat

I know how scared of love you are
I can feel that fear in my own heart
we both carry that heavy weight
of having a plethora of love to give
and no one to give it to
or more specifically
being to afraid of giving it
whenever we find ourselves
desperately in love

why do we let fear sit so closely
to our hearts
if we never take the risk
of our hearts breaking
how will we ever know the joy
of our hearts being seen
I see your heart
I have seen your heart for so long now
that I can’t remember a time
of not knowing what it looks like
what it sounds like

I’ve been there ever time
it has pounded against your chest
trying to break through your ribcage
so it could give itself away
to the people you wanted to tell
that you use the letters of their name
to spell the word love

when you weren’t looking
I snuck through your sketch pads
I’ve read their names and all the poems
you were to shy to share
I’ve been that person for my whole life
unable to share through an unbearable shyness

I know how long you have been alone
I know how comfortable solitude has become
I know the comfort of silence
in a world that is big
on the ceaseless chatter
of small talk

I know you have a lot to say
I know you keep those words
locked safely in your heart
I know they are weighing your heart down  

If its not too awkward
you could let me share your corner
and we could read some books
and forget about the coffee we ordered
until it is too cold to drink
but drink it anyway
and sit still enough to feel the earth
turning all around us
and we could trade our hearts
for a moment

or a lifetime

and talk without saying a word
and learn each other’s language
and then I could show you
that I spell the word love
with the letters of your name

I can see how poorly
you have been sleeping
maybe your need a new mattress
one with more foam
and less memory

or maybe its the blanket
you have weaved
out of the ghosts
you can’t stop yourself from haunting
maybe its time to make a new one
from the days you
haven’t lived through
the nights you haven’t dreamt of
the names you haven’t spoken
the days you could walk
through doors instead of walls
the nights you could walk
with your hands empty
of your rattling past

maybe its the pillows heavy
with the salt of tears
filled with oceans
maybe your head would stop
drowning in its sleep
if you slept on something safer
something lighter
maybe let the past
sink in its own wreckage
use those old pillows as tombstones
at the bottom of the sea
you can’t forget
but you can let go of

let go

let go

and lets go to sleep

we stumbled through the dark
not knowing who
or what we were
swimming towards a finish line
we didn’t know was there
winning a prize
we didn’t ask for
or know what to do with

then for nine months
we grew in the blessed soil
of our mothers body
completely unaware
of being completely unaware

until a pair of hands pulled us
form the days of then
into the days that staked
into these days of now

once so small
we were not visible
to the human eye
how oddly we formed
in the ocean of our mothers belly
what strange things we become
(do you ever miss your tail?  I do...)

time seems a mischievous trickster
a dishonest magician
one minute a nascar driver
the next hour a lost snail
circling the same path

it seems we would remember
more of our first breath
the first time we saw
our mothers face
felt our fathers hand

we are far too old
by the time we can appreciate
how beautiful it was
to be an age where
we knew so little
yet believed in so much

how horrible it is to look back
and witness the ****** of magic
we once carried
in such great abundance

we are tricked into
this idea of growing up
horse pickles to that ship
I wont be sailing
on that boat anytime soon

adults are tragically misinformed
what they have gained
is not worth
what they had to give up

and it’s not that I still believe
in Santa Claus
its that I know the truth
of how he really is

its unfortunate how many parents
are too busy trying
to teach their kids
the this and that
of the that and this
of the world
too few know
how to sit still long enough
to listen and realize
how much their children
have to teach them
to remind them
of how precious and wonderful
it is to believe in the things
that are worth believing in
to remind them that magic
is a gift of love
and love is in everything
that is magic

how carelessly we fail to notice
the magic all around us
how willfully we waste
this short life
how many unnecessary
burdens we carry
how shamefully
we pass them down

growing old is inevitable  
and that in itself is a good thing
time maybe mischievous
and dishonest
the cuckoo clock may always
speak in fibs of hours
and fairy tale minutes
for the only time we have
is the only time it ever is

a brief pause of eternity
as we unknowing stumble
through this now
hardly aware of who
or what we are
or what to do
mistaking life for something
less than magic
instead of feeling how much
of it is filled with love

The sun wept marigold tears
  and we were too busy
   in the toil of our own grief

     to notice

     to pause

     to ask her why

nor did we bother
  to pay attention
   to the splitting seam
    in the sky
or how all the colors
  bleed that day

but Death in all her gentleness

   paused

sat quietly with the sun
  gently wiped the tears
   from her cheek
    held her hand
and waited while the sun
  mourned what needed
    to be mourned

then Death pulled a thread
  from the fabric of her robe
   and stitched the tearing seam
    in the sky

and then with all
  the bleeding colors
    painted a long overdue sunset
     on the never ending horizon

she walked into the coffee bar
and was greeted
by the usual smiles
from the usual faces
and the usual hands
crafted her usual drink
to its usual perfection

casual warm smiles
were exchanged
along with the payment
for for the beverage
and service provided
both sweet and friendly

she walked to the corner
in the back
her favorite spot  
not overly bright in the day
and not under lit in the evening

she slouched back
into the booth
and found the
comfortable crooked curve
she liked in her spine
sipped the swan
off the top of her latte
and opened her sketch pad

her pen slowly twirled
in her hand
dancing between her fingers
pausing to

  tap-pa

    tap-pa
    
      tap-pa

on the fresh blank page

she thought of what he would say
her lips scrunched up
and raised slightly
towards her right cheek
while her pen continued
to tap dance on the page
and pirouette perfectly
on the tippy tip of her fingers

maybe he would make a joke

no...

he would be too nervous
he was after all
shy and timid
her mirrored reflection
in almost all accounts

perhaps small talk
something about the recent
peculiar habits of the weather
or maybe the terrible new muffins
that with great deception
looked so wonderfully yummy
behind the glass counter display

no...

they were both
too fond of silence
to break it over things
that were so trivial

no matter what he said
he would be nervous
and would try and fail
to hide this fact
behind his ever present
awkward smile

she knew what he wanted to say
that she wanted to hear him say it
but that it couldn’t just be said

not straight out

they were words too big
to pass through his throat
words too loud for her ears

words that could wait
words that could be said
without being spoken aloud
and still be heard

he had to say something though
awkward silence
though a specialty
they both excelled at
had both its place
and limited charm
and this was not its time
or place to be charming

she clicked the back of the pen
and placed the ball on the page
and started to make
lines and curves
some smooth
some jagged
a rhythm of uncertainty
from her moving hand and wrist

she imagined the sound
of his voice
and started to sculpt
and mold it into words
they floated there in her mind
juggled themselves
between past and present
metaphors and prose
truth and...

she smiled as she figured it out

he would tell her a lie

a harmless mess
of obvious mischief
not meant to fool
or mislead

but to entertain
and to humor
to hide
the much heavier truth
in plain sight

a small but loud giggle
and snort escaped her
and she shrank down
a little in her corner

she composed herself
sat up just a little bit straighter  
and then she began to write....

He saw her again
  the girl who wasn't
    the imaginary one
she slowly sauntered
  through the fading
    of a dream
     to the other side
   and sat quietly
     at the end of his bed

Smiling like the Grinch
  perfect dimples at both ends
   of her sugar red lips
eyes as full as the moon
  ready to ******
she never said a word
  out loud
but spoke in perfect clarity
  to his heart

“What a strange joy we find
  in the need to love”

She stood and wandered
  from here to there
soft as a ghost
   she stopped at his bookshelf
running her fingers
  down the spine
   of the books
pausing from time to time
  to pull one out
   flip through the pages

     stop

    and read for a moment

sometimes laughing

sometimes sighing

sometimes hiding a brief sob

He laid under the cover
  of his blanket and sheets
    careful to be motionless
      fearing any movement
       would cause her to vanish
      from sight and memory

as if she heard his thoughts

  and perhaps she did

    she turned and smiled

“What good are our eyes
  when we look at the things
    only our hearts will remember
   and are memories anything more
     than dreams of things
       that once were
    played infinitely on the repetition
  of the waves crashing at the edge
and shores of Oceans End?”

She turned back to the books
  tilting her head
   continuing her ritual
she would occasionally turn
  fireworks bursting in her eyes
   show him the book
     she had freshly picked
       from the crowded shelves
      and then bring it to her chest
        right over her heart
         and hug it tightly
her impossibly wide smile
  growing somehow wider
she nodded with approval
  before turning
    and placing it back
      in the crowd

He didn’t know if
  it was night or day
   or how long he
    had been laying there
     watching her skim over
       pick up
        and read through
        book after book
       he tried to stop himself
      from thinking about
   the reality of things
of how she was

    the girl who wasn’t

     the one he imagined

when his heart was
  at the verge of feeling

     too lonely

     for too long

when he feared that
  the comforts of solitude
    would become...

      uncomfortable

And on cue she replied
  to the thoughts
   he meant not to think...

“Silly silly boy....
   who imagined who
     was it me or was it you...
    go back to sleep
   and when the stars
  have time again to dream
I will see you
  as you will see me...
    never more and nothing less
       than some imagined dream”

She hugged one last book
  and placed it tenderly back
   smiled as warm as the noon day sun
    paused at the bathroom door
      resisting the urge to turn around
       and see her empty bed

“who imagined who...”
she laughed at herself
looked at her reflection
in the mirror
faked a smile
an impossibly wide smile
and started to hum

“Somewhere”

and stepped into her shower
thinking to herself

someday...

someday...

she reads out loud
the works of Shel Silverstein
between dusk and dawn
and knew a thing or two
about a tiger
and a mischievous little boy
and she could make him blush
from the inside out
yet they were never
in the same place
at the same time
planets apart
ghosts haunting different hearts
in different houses
soft spoken whispers
of silk poetry
lining the hours of longing
drifting in and out
with the moonlight
lips that only kissed
in fiction and rhyme
little white lies of lily's
scattered between the stars
sweet cherry dreams
of imagined sin
and somewhere in places
that don't exist
in times that never where
and never would be
there was a love
as only love can be
between the words
of fairies dreaming
and heavens falling
as she reads out loud
the works of Shel Silverstein

He turned the idea over
and then turned it over again
examining it from odd angles
twisting it this way
stretching it that way
and came to the conclusion
that the only way out
the only thing he could do
was to lie

Not a clever lie
nothing that would be believable
no, it had to be
obvious
obnoxious
and obscenely so

He imagined her reading it
and smiling
and laughing
and knowing the truth
he had meant to hide inside of it
but had somehow
accidentally made perfectly clear

She would then
touch his shoulder gently
her smile still warm on her lips
and she would whisper
her own lie into his ear
and her own truth
would playful dance in her eyes

They would sit through
an awkward moment of silence
and then suddenly burst
out into a spontaneous gush
of embarrassing laughter

He would snort
and run out of breath
and she would cover her mouth
trying not to laugh harder
but fail miserably
and fall over laughing louder
and more rabidly than before

The laughter would turn to giggles
then turn to smiles
then turn to shy looks
and then small sighs

This moment would
be stolen by eternity
and crafted into a small jewel
and then broken in half
and then each half
would be embedded
into each of their hearts

He wouldn’t remember
how it had happened
but he would be holding her hand
while all this happened
and she would be looking
at all the past
and pain
and loss
and love
he kept hidden between the colors
and the pupils of his eyes

He would try to look away
try to keep some
of those secrets to himself
but he would be frozen there
trapped by the stopping of time
as helpless as a fresh born infant
and as giddy as a school boys first crush

She would read it all
she would understand it all
she would be grateful
for the intimacy
of knowing these things
and she would treat
this knowledge with grace and respect

The silent moment would return
but the awkwardness would not be there
they would both hear
the cracking of a fireplace
that was not there
but still
somehow warmed the room

A greater truth would be
waiting patiently on her lips
inviting him to taste
its sweetness with his own

They would both lean in
at the same time...

Then

“****!”

she disappeared
and he suddenly remembered
that she wasn’t real
that she didn’t exist
that she was the imagined creation
of his wandering heart
someone for him to write
fictional love poems to
A distraction from any real person
who he might grow affectionate towards

He wrote down the lie
and crossed it out
and then wrote down another lie

He read it
and re-read it
tried to imagine her laughter again
but she didn’t laugh
so he crossed it out
and tried again

Another lie
and then another
scribbled and scratched
typed and edited
rewrote and deleted
then rearranged in his head
and written down one more time

She laughed so hard this time
he was afraid she might be taken away
mistaken for a madwoman
and he almost crossed it out again

But her laughter was perfect
with a pinch of a cackle
a douse of innocence
a shake of honesty
and for good measure

a sprinkle of love

He dotted the “i’s”
and crossed the “‘t’s”
and smiled

It was a good lie
maybe not his best
but his own heart was fooled
and it was happy
and that seemed good enough

He put his pen down
and closed his sketch pad
he stood up and stretched
the smile was still there
and he could still hear her laughter

but in the corner of his lips
there was an almost
unnoticeable sadness
a lingering loneliness

Something he would
never admit to tasting
to knowing was there

He walked into the bathroom
ready to shower away
the aches and pains
of his slowly aging bones

he paused in front
of his reflection in the mirror
and for a brief moment
thought he saw himself
flicker in and out of existence

A brief moment of both
panic and joy swept over him
as he wondered if
he was possibly
the character that didn’t exist

that he was nothing more
than a fevered dream
of a lonely and desperate heart

Wouldn’t that be funny he thought
as he stripped himself bare
and then stepped into the bath
and pulled the curtain close

He laughed a good laugh
an honest laugh
a laugh laced
with the magic of snow
and the innocence of children
and then melted
under the steam and hot water
and slipped down the drain
and was never seen
or heard from again

January rolls in over the mountain side
bringing cold brisk air and frost
to scatter among the morning dew
no dragons can be found
among the empty trees
gone away
with no leaves to hide behind
there is no trace of scale
or tooth or tail

some crawl underground
to hibernate among the molten rocks
until the coming spring

others fly away
behind the stretched out clouds
in search of warmer breeze

those that like to swim
join the tortoise and the whale
and sink into the ocean and the sea

those in need of greater heat
and wide and open land
slink off in search of dessert sands

and perhaps there are a few
that fly off to recharge their breath
with the flame and fire of the sun

and there is a rumor among the stars
that a few sneak off to the moon
to run about and play
where it is midnight
every hour and minute of the day

there is a secret here
a story known to ever leaf
to every bloom
from the youngest sapling
to the oldest branch

there is a dragon for every tree
and every tree a dragon

and no better place for them
to live and hide
than where no matter
how hard we may try
we will find no trace of scale
or tooth or tail
beneath the camouflage
of spring to autumns leaves

twelve years ago you fell
from your mothers belly
like a soft prayer of small miracles
all of heaven contained within
the wonder sparkling in your eyes
everything that could be
more than I expected
happiness more abundant than infinite
beautiful in every sense
that love can be defined
I have never appreciated
the air in my lungs
or the blood in my veins
or the pulse and rhythm of my heart
more than the first time I held you
or the last time I heard you laugh

twelve years pasted so quickly
and I am torn equally
between wishing I could stop time
and the excitement of watching you grow
the impatience for seeing who you will become
you are both hope and the future

twelve years of being the luckiest dad
the happiest father
it often feels like you have been teaching me
more than I will ever be able to teach you
you have made it so easy
life so joyous

your heart is a treasure trove of kindness
your soul a gentle campaign of patience
your intellect sharp
with both wisdom and humor
what a gift it has been
to love you
to be loved by you

twelve years of everything
that could be more than I expected

the gently sun peeks through
the long clouds stretching out
across the horizon
and up into the morning sky

a parade of silhouetted leafless trees
march up and down the hillside

the earth spinning in a perfect
and endless pirouette

the seasons always on the move
coming and going
gone and here again

nearby the moon practicing
her crescent smile
the stars applying
their shimmer and shine
the night dying its blanket
in a new wash of pitch black
the shortest day of the year racing by
collecting the last
of what it can find for warmth

and somewhere off in the wings
winter is shaking the last
of autumns dusk from her coat
waiting for the curtains to close
the stage to be reset
the lights to dim

waiting for the moon to walk out
on her tightrope
far above the crowd below
to see her perfect practiced
crescent smile light the stage

winter enters on the back
of the great north wind
a wind that in a certain light
at a certain angle
sometimes looks like
a great white wolf
with mischievous eyes

winters footsteps litter the stage with snow
her skin reflecting cool blues
and cold lights
somehow offers a special warmth
the warmth of

sleeping children dreaming
of snowmen and sleigh rides
little mice finding feasts
in what we would call crumbs
far away fathers remembering
quite nights and home fires
expectant mothers waiting impatiently
for cozy blankets and bedtime stories
for the long and lonely grief
to remember what once was
and to feel that joy again
and to smile in knowing
that no one is truly ever gone

and as suddenly as it began
the night though long
seems too short

the moon tired but still smiling
trades places with the sun

and the clouds stretch out
to cover the long horizon

and winter marches
with the leafless trees
up and down the hillside

waiting with the trees
for their leaves to bloom
and her time to pass
and go again

remember the winter
you kissed my heart
and left your lips there
as if they had gotten stuck
to something cold

they stayed there through the spring
and we watched something warm bloom
something that felt like hope
and tasted like love
but we both knew it wasn't
we knew we were just easing the pain
of our existence  
offering soft comforts
between short pauses of misery

it was nice though
like a promise we meant to keep
like something sharp
dancing between our tongues
like a sweet truth hiding
somewhere in the soft middle
of the lie

maybe it could have been something
something more that is
something more than casual deceit
something more like warmth
and less like numb
maybe it could have been
as real as it felt
that is
if we had wanted to feel it

it wasn't bad though
not really
to remember what love could be
if we weren't always
getting our lips stuck
to something cold
if we weren't so attached
to the winters we keep
in every season of our hearts

we sometimes so desperately
cling to summer
that we a scarcely notice
the passing of autumn
what a shame it is to miss
the funeral dance
of the falling leaves
no longer green or gold
they clutter the ground
in the fading colors of rust

before we know
winter rides in on a chill breeze
wearing a mischievous smile
and what an odd thing
that we don't take warmth
in fresh fallen snow
fingertips growing numb
red cheeks
a runny nose
children giggling as only they can
so far away from the seasons
were their hearts will know
the weight of gravity
life will one day carry

what a waste we make of youth
too little do we realize
how wonderful it is
to know so little
yet believe in so much
magic hats
skating snowmen
quite mice
flying sleighs
saints of kringle
back when winter lit our hearts
with cozy fires
roasted marshmallows
sips of too hot hot coco

so long ago before we wasted winter
on wishes for days of spring
back when we knew so little
yet believed in so much
before we knew
how to be desperate
how to cling
to wasteful thoughts
wasteful things

back before we lost
the wonder of believing
the joy of simple things
and how to take comfort
in the warmth of winter

what a beautiful thing life is
that we can find moments
of joy in our tears

that we can become so happy
that we find we are unable
to do anything but weep

that we can find love
in both comedy and tragedy
in the simplicity of smiling
in the complexity of grieving
small gestures of gratitude
little acts of kindness

how lucky are we that we can find
our hearts with an over abundance of love
that love can overflow faster
than our hearts can beat
and our hearts can beat faster
than a falling star
desperate to find a last wish
faster than a hunger cheetah
and the gazelle trying to outrun death

how lucky am I to be here
to still be here
when there have been moments
when I had carelessly wished that I wasn’t
how many pennies have I tossed away
on thoughts that weren’t worth
the cost of thinking

and somehow I am still here
against the odds of my own self doubt
against the bets of my own loathing

how many times have I felt
that the days were too cold
the nights too long
how many winters
have I invited to stay
to keep the possibility of spring
from blooming in my heart

how poorly have I managed
both the gears and wisdom of the clock
what a grand illusion we make of time
to paste numbers on its face
to give it hands that cannot hold
what it can only watch slip away

to give measurement to something
that has no end
had no beginning
as if to mock infinity
to entrap eternity
to something so small
we could wear it on our wrists

much time is wasted
and I know this to be true
for a have wasted more
than my fair share

and yet
I am still here
and lucky to be so
what a strange and wonderful gift
to feel the autumn of death
slowly creeping through my bones
to be granted access
beyond the curtain and illusion of time
to see the magician
though a thief and a liar
is the same a fool as any can be
as many are

tomorrow is the same as today
and yesterday is still here
time cannot be tensed
by past or future stress
it can only be here
here for this one brief moment
this one short glorious pause of eternity
this long yawn slowly interrupting infinity
stuck somewhere between
the laughter of children
and the last breath of the dying

and how lucky am I
to be here
to still be here in a life
where I find moments of joy
in tears I am only
too happy to weep

How dead to we have to become
before we start to feel alive

how much flesh do we have to shed
before we believe that we look beautiful
is it until there is nothing left but our bones

how much death must we ingest
before we chase away
our gut feeling of ugliness

how high a price are we willing to pay
to appease our need to look our best

what can we hope to gain
by losing all we have
to satisfy the narcissism
of our egos eye

is the high price of beauty
worth being dead inside

short skirts and **** me heels
bones laced in lingerie
dying in a web of lies
hoping to be as pretty
as a picture in a magazine

what pills will we swallow
what will we burn
to **** that burning doubt
that we don’t look good enough

what are we chasing
what is this dream
this endless pursuit
of outward loveliness

is it some misconception
some illusion made of deceit
to believe beauty is something
we can see with our failing sight

is their glamour in the death of our hearts
is it a noble lamb for the butchers knife
skinned alive so we may dance in elegance

handsome boys
alluring girls
fifty ways to hide our monstrous skin
so full of human flaws

devilish grins
mischievous smiles
*** sells and death the highest bidder
on our wasted life
of self obsession

click click
snap snap
what filter can hide
how grotesque our ambition has become
to post our perfect self from our phones

is becoming dead gorgeous
worth the sacrifice of everything
that lives inside of us

do you ever think that
maybe the sun gets tired
that maybe she just needs
one night to herself
just one night to sleep
one day off to let
her fiery hair down
to find an ocean
big enough to swim through
a river wide enough
to float down

do you think she minds
that we write so many
poems to the moon
that we marvel
in awe and wonder
mesmerized by the moons light
forgetting even at night
its her light
lighting our way

do you ever wonder
what it must be like
to always be rising
to always be out
to always be hanging
somewhere in the sky
to always feel the fires burning

to never know the joy
of a cool breeze
to never find shelter from the heat
in the shade of a great oak tree
to never have your hands
go numb from playing in the snow

what must it be like to be the sun
do you ever stop to think
how tired she must be
to always be burning
burning so bright
all that light
all that warmth
keeping this earth alive

do you think she minds
all the poems we write to the moon
that we stay up so late
sleep in so often
and treat doing so as a luxury
that we relish the time
she is absent from the sky
do you think she minds

love...

write me a poem about love
and I will find the words
of the truth
for what is love
in its definition
its meaning
its weight
its volume
its giving
its losing
its finding
its breaking
its birth
its glory
its death

its flames rising from the ashes
its blood forever beating in our hearts
Its rhythm always dancing in our blood
its soul living in our bones

for what is love
if not the fate of
and ghost of
our footsteps
the past running
through the present
the present holding dearly
to the past
the memory of
the then and the now
all the joy we find
all the pain we endure

the blessing we taste
on our tongue
as we whisper
the last word of a prayer
the sin that clings to our lips
as we linger
in the sweet mouth of lust
the fire blazing beneath our flesh
as sweat soaks
the sheets of our beds

what is love but the longing
the searching
the journey
the sea
the sand
the waves
the mist
the shore
the map
the spot
the mark
the x
the chest
and the treasure singing within

what is love
but the absolute
the everything
the everything
we will find in the truth
as you write me
a poem about love

the road unravels before me and the horizon keeps running two steps ahead of me and I cannot stop from imagining what the earth would look like without us, how all this concrete and steel would be overrun with grass and vines, wildflowers and wildlife... wildlife?  wildlife would just be life without us here to label it by our standards of what is and isn’t “wild”, without the plague of what we like to see as “civilized humanity” and my mind goes into its own metaphysical pseudo rage at the terminology of that phrase... “civilized humanity”... are we civilized?... humane?... if we stop to read between the lines... if we examine the folds between the pages of our history books... if we don’t blindly swallow down the twisted perspective of the past... if we don’t willing believe the lies we make up about our yesteryears so we can see ourselves as hero’s... instead of the villains... the villains we only stopped pretending to be when the victims of our crimes rose up and fought back... the men in chains, the women without voices, the children forced to fight for words and ideas of old men too afraid to die for their own beliefs... and even now, day by day history seems to be stuck on repeat... a scratched record of wobble wax turning round and round as out of tune as we are out of breath, and worse than that we seem to be allowing it to rewind and tangle and gurgle out white noise and static, to take three steps back for every king of freedom we have let be assassinated... for all the X’s we have drawn on their necks to mark where the knife and the bullet and the noose..should slash... should strike... should choke the life from...their bodies... their voices... their hearts... because freedom is only allowed to be pretty in the eyes of a metaphor... it is far too dangerous in the hands of the of the general populace... far too fragile to let our “civilized humanity” be in control of... we hear the word anarchy and imagine it ripe with chaos... never admitting to ourselves that the only chaos that exists in the ideology of anarchy is our own inability to treat each other with any kind of social responsibility without the threat of some kind of punishment... we only have ourselves to blame that without “law”, there would be no “order”... give me freedom... give them death... I could paint you a picture, tell you a tale of two similar in every way but the ending... one walks away and one falls to the grave... the grieving see no justice and the living just keep on walking... i hear that only love can defeat hate... i hear these words echo back and forth through time... i hear them echo over the bombs of the past, i hear them whisper over the bullets whizzing into the future, i hear them in ever beating heart in this room...yet i cannot stop myself from wondering... why does it feel like we are losing... why does it seem like this is a battle love will never win... why do we keep fighting... love vs hate... love over hate... when if we don’t stop fighting... one day soon... I won’t have to imagine this world without us... and everything, all this concrete, all this steel, all our flesh, all our bones...overrun with grass and vines, wildflowers... and life

love capable of creating
hate habitually destructive
we would rather
spill each other's blood
than find a way
to mend one another's wounds
and why?
when hate nourishes the mind
as well as cyanide
poisons the body
and love can tend the broken
of past and present
and bring warmth in days to come
why do we give into
the short quick fuse
of anger and hate when love
is always there
patient and waiting

write me down in a tragedy
tie me up with metaphor
devour me with pleasures sin
****** me with lust
steal my last breath of love

would you be
the queen of muses
would I be
the fool of kings

what am I doing here
lost within the stars
I can only imagine
as your eyes

what secrets could I find
in the garden of your night
is there more than
forbidden fruit
hanging from the vines

would the sweetness
quench my thirst
or would I need more
and more
until I found
my tongue tied
my teeth rotted
my mouth dry
still hungering
still wanting
one more taste

what am I doing here
lost in a tragedy
tangled in metaphor
staggering between
pleasure and sin
murdered by lust
while stealing from love

what has our intelligence done for us
other than soften our instinct
slow down our reflex
made us into habitual
connoisseurs of convenience
curators of insta-gratification  
creatures of know it all
without the need
to understand anything
the universe just
a night sky out of reach
just a spattering of stars dot the sky
all the cosmos overhead
and we are too consumed
by the blue screens that feed
the narcissism of our egos
to look up in awe and wonder
to question the arrogance
of our intelligence
to see how little we know
about the things we know
as we have killed the view of heaven
with the artificial light of our pollution
facts blurred with faith
and we ignore all the fiction
that causes so much friction
that we allow our children...
that we force our children...
to ****** other children
boys feeling like men
poisoned by patriotism and pride
in such a rush to die
for the words of freedom
never stopping to question
the definition of the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the redundancy
never stopping
the redundancy
the redundancy of war
as we will not question the intelligence
that infects us with
the sovereignty to be exalted
by our own cruelty
how else could we excuse
our history that keeps repeating
keeps its transcripts written
in the death and blood of the innocent
mislead by prejudice and hate
taught by fear and ignorance
all brought to us
by what we call intelligence

why were we given these hearts
this muscle beating below our ribs
what good is it
if only driven
by the intellect of our minds
our self indulgent intelligence
why have hearts at all
if we never stop to listen
listen to the message
of its beating
its pounding on our ribs
if we never stop to accept the wisdom
it sings in ever silent word
words that need no definition
need no ink or blood
written down in a declaration
of its reason to be living
it needs not our intelligence to survive
our intellect to live
it has its own wisdom
the wisdom of love
and in our grand intelligence
we are too blind to see
too deaf to hear
too unwilling to feel the truth
of how useless any intelligence is
without the wisdom of love

is it something sparked
something found
or is it just
a passing thought
a fleeting urge

a rumbled hope
a trembled touch
a lost soul
in need of love

or is it a dream
of wickedness
a hunger
from desires flesh
to explore the forbidden
sins of lust

what was imagined here
between the lines
where words did play

what did fingers trace
while parting metaphors
tattooed on flowered thigh

what sound escaped
warm parted lips
where kisses lingered
in long drawn out breaths

was it something lost
or something found
in voyage through
a sea mist scent of love
over sheets soaked
in sinful sweat

where there bodies imagined
what happened here
as their words did play
between the lines

do you ever feel like
you need someone to hold you...
just hold you down...
just so you don’t fall up into the sky...
away from here...
here...
where you’re so desperate
not to be anymore...
here in all the heavy...
all this sorrow..

here...
where hate spreads
at the squeeze of a trigger
a storm of bullets
where bodies fall
that will not get up again

here...
where love crumbles
and the grieving
don’t get to catch their breath
before they find themselves
grieving again

here...
where the pain is everywhere

here...
where you just want
to let gravity go
and leave all of

here...

behind as you fall
into the sky

winter around the corner
and where will i be
when the last day of autumn
has exhaled its last breath
i can feel something more
than the cold creeping
in the cracking of my ribs
and there is a pain
beyond the numb sleeping
in the stagnate pulse of my blood

winter around the corner
and how will i be
when the last day of autumn
walks away with
the marrow of my bones
when my ribs are cold and still
when my pulse has gone to sleep
how will i be
at the winter of my death

no worry dear friends...

I am in no rush to go
it has been a full life
it continues still
to be a good life

love and joy abundant
grief and loss and sorrow
painfully they have been  
but durable
bearable
no tale of life can walk
a road free from days
of melancholy rain

my heart
what stories it would tell
if i could pull it from my ribs
and sit it here upon the stage

it may curse my name
it may tell of heavy woe
but for every burdened song
there was a blessing
a time of immortal feats
a pause along infinity’s horizon
a night that held down the sun
for one last eternal kiss

a memory that death
will not take away

my heart often battered..
broken...
abused...
betrayed...
never stopped beating
never stopped believing
never stopped loving
those that made it love

i look back through
summers spent and gone
and feel the autumn
spreading through my bones  
i suspect the winter of my death
will come with snow
and gentle wind

a passing day that will give way
to eternal night
and much like life has been
I suspect the winter of my death
will be just as beautiful

was she plucking
at his heartstrings
or was it something deeper
or just something lower
a hunger he forgot to feed
a desire
a longing
a sinful intervention
from his melancholy

was it the color of her lips
or the curve of her smile
the wet scent of her hair
or the soft skin of her neck
that drew his attention
to dreams of lust

or was it the play of words
that set the stage
of his imagination
to a fairy tale
of tragedy and love

was it all
just fabrication and myth
a vain attempt
to mask loneliness
as perfume and poetry  

to hide tears that reeked
of heartache and desperation
hours of solitude disrupted
by an ugly sob
a boy lost in the labyrinth
of broken man

as she plucked
at his heartstrings
was it the slow dirge
of a funeral march
or was it a song of redemption
she played from his heart

She turns tragedies into sins
heartache into lust
she has other reasons to smile
than the simple act of joy
her lips know the art of mischief
she can write complete sonnets
without using a single word
with just the slide of her wrist
her fingers can draw out
the metaphor of a moan
no syllables
only sighs
she can steal anything
from anyone
but everyone
always willing gives
whatever she wants
whenever she wants
if you catch her lips
curved up into a smile
you might be become
her next tragedy
after she writes you
into her sins

I wonder what it is...
what keeps the heart beating...
where does it find the will...
despite the pain...
despite the hollow...
how does something so broken...
function without fault...
without hesitation...
how does it keep us alive...
against our best efforts to not be...
shallow breaths drowning in our lungs...  
nothing but ghostly echos in our footsteps...
a longing to return to dust in our marrow...
and yet...
the heart beats on...
words buried under whispers...
silence the only thing that roars...
white noise lost in our eyes...
but the heart keeps going...
despite the empty...
despite the heavy...
keeping us alive...
and I’m so tired... ...
exhausted...
from this beating thing inside my chest...
from caring too much...
from not caring enough...
from dreaming...
from not dreaming...
from believing in something more
while watching it all
turn to something less...
and I wonder...
how much longer...
can the heart beat...
before it feels...
all that hollow...
all that heavy...
before it feels tired too...

I know I should keep
these feeling buried
until I am in my grave
I know there are some things
I just shouldn’t say
but I can’t help but wonder
what it would be like
to hold you through out the night
until the morning bird has come out
and sung his song
after the moon has watched me
strip you one by one
of all your clothes
and dropped them
as we stumble down the hall
on the way to your bedroom door
count each step sin by sin

and I know...

and I know...

these are things I just shouldn’t say
but these are the things
burning in my blood
that are going to haunt me
long after I am in my grave
a regret of either what I did
or what  I didn’t say
it’s going to burn me either way
so what should I do here
should I not be here at all
either night or day

and i know...

and I know...

this is a thirst for what I cannot drink
a first kiss that will never be
this hunger for what you cannot give
a warm body of comfort
throughout this long cold life
that gets shorter
the longer I hold my breath
and I’m drowning in my heart
as it is turning blue

and I know...

and I know...

I am just wishing on a distant star
from another life
when I was younger
when if you had been there
it wouldn’t be impossible
for you to be
the only thing my heart
would need to breath
you could have been
all the blood in my lungs
you could have been my one
and only love
but fate wasn’t a star I could reach
and pluck from the sky
in my life from another time

and I know...

and I know...

I know I should keep
these feeling buried
until I am in my grave
I know these are things
I just shouldn’t say
I know I am going
to regret them either way
stuck in my throat
or falling from my mouth
you can’t be the only thing
my heart needs to breath
you can’t be all the blood
filling up my lungs

and I know...

and I know...

I am haunted by
all of these feelings
that will follow me to my grave
no matter what I do or say
what should I do here
should I not be here at all
either night or day
what should I do here

My heart feels too heavy
to carry through another day
which means
it is still alive
still beating
and yet
to be honest
I don’t want to hold my head up
I don’t want to stay above
the waters of a shallow grave

what in this world
will give me back
the will to live
when hate is so quick
to take a breath away
to stop a heart
inside a strangers chest

what thesaurus of fear
what dictionary of ignorance
what is it that defines
the vocabulary of the blood
inside the mind
that loathes the brother
he does not know

the senators keep praying
praying for another distraction
the congressmen keep thinking
thinking of no one but themselves

and we just mindlessly nod
and bob our heads
debating who is to blame
pointing fingers while ignoring
our own reflections

apathy keeps us choking
on our own silence
and why are the living so quite
how is it that the dead
with no air in their lungs
no movement in their hearts
can sing so much brighter
can speak so much louder
than so many of those
that are still alive

nothing good will come
from the living
who refuse to speak for the dead
and the dead must be sick of dying
and I wonder why the grieving
aren’t sick to death of grief

and in all honesty I find it hard
to live another day in a world
that can make my heart

feel so heavy

too heavy

to carry through another day

but its there in that weight
isn’t it
that heavy
that burden of hope
that we know we are still alive
that are lungs can still take
and give breath
that our hearts can still beat
still pound beneath our ribs

and there in our pulse
no matter the weight of our hearts
should we not always
find the will to be alive