Ride Red Tricycle
ride soft and slow,
through cool breeze
and bloodied knees,
through the sun
and the snow.

Ride Red Tricycle
even when the sweat
glistens your face,
you are whole
you are pure,
you are in
first place.

Ride Red Tricycle
your time is slowly running out,
your tires are deflated
your innocence,
degraded
you almost can hear
your mothers shouts.

Ride Red Tricycle
far away from those shouts,
and never doubt those pedals,
while simplicity is still alive
because once your tricycle is gone
life feels like a lie.

Ride Red Tricycle
because that crimson complexion
never lasts,
soon it will be ghostly white
and all that will be left
is rusted memories
of the past

You said once  you'd sew my uneven edges back together,

You tried, but the stitches popped like over worked violin strings that you still tried to play

The audience filed out as the procession of broken music danced through their conscious and out their ears.

They did not applaud.

But I did.  

My hands rediscovered each other over your failure to compose  

You were remiss to the horrible noises that covered the auditorium but I gave you a standing ovation.

And if my uneven edges became broken violin strings than your soul become the worn down ebony that let the strings go.

If I were to paint my body a certain color I think I'd choose blue
I wouldn't choose black, it would be too telling
And any bright color just wouldn't be true.

Blue would be a median.
A wave in the sea of many, passing by swiftly. Undetected.

A tear on the cheek of your most loved friend. Falling down with no exact path in mind. Melting into the kitchen floor, alive one second, gone the next

Blue,
Would hide the true shadows. The cobwebs in the corner of the attic that incase old photo albums we haven't opened in years  

But Blue would also be honest,
Blue would not be the sun that paints circles of joy on your face,
Or sand castles on a summer day.
It wouldn't be fire, destroying everything it's tips grazed, there would be no flame.

There wouldn't be any point to Blue,
It would just be.

It wouldn't see
Or feel
Or speak

With blue there would be no emotion, I'd just be a rolling sea of bleak.

lonely eyes fall on deaf ears

-a six word story

Emotion
is a barbed wire fence
and I am an inmate of hostile commotion
and you
are visitation hours
opening up from 3 to 4
and always leaving me wanting more
hung in a noose of suspense
behind that barbed wire fence

Treat your life like you are the thinly drawn apple tree
out side the window.
When the day is forgiving and provides you with light,
cultivate and grow, stretch your branches to the  sky,
show the world you are alive, provide shade for the less fortunate,
and bear fruit for the empty.

If the world is a portrait of darkness,
and the clouds become to thick as the temperature plummets,
change your perspective,
grow oranges and reds instead of greens
until the weight becomes to much to bear.
then free yourself and shed your pain,
leave yourself bare to world, embrace your vulnerability.
plant your roots, be strong.

Spring will always be around the corner.

Souls
Tossed in the furnace
Beaten, burned to a crisp
Till they scream to be taken out of the
******* hell hole that is adolescene.

Taken out
Minced into fine peices
Hung out to dry  in the prisons of useless social conformity.

Lost
In the game of emotion
the game that you're not supposed to win.

a man walks a tight rope,
the wind does kart wheels across his nose
reminding him of unwelcome territory
and the rope complains bitterly about how he's unfit for the job.
holding the balance of one man's life is too much for me it scoffs.
the man laughs.
life? he thinks.
what a unfortunate thing to be a part of.

He was a mountain,
pieced together with jagged edges,

forever frozen in one place as one of natures accidents.

She was the sunset,
pink and radiant,
full of life,
reborn from the heavens every morning,

when she moved no one said a word.

Often she would spill over his summit,
wiping herself around each peak.

Tourists came from every where to appreciate it,
they pulled out their cameras ready to capture her beauty.

To him it was never about her, but the both of them in that tiny black view box.

Together they made a stunning picture.

When the picture of them was show he was always the destination,
she was the accessory, the edging that just happened to be there.
Whether it was an infection of greed or true love, the mountain became obsessed with becoming a seven by ten kodak pinned on a wall.

In fact he loved it too much,
eventually the sunset went away and he was left cold and dark.
The Ocean won her over, a warm, unchanging calm who's personality seemed to engulf the world.

Tourists came, staring in awe at the ocean,

and the sunset just happened to be there.

I'm sorry that the pores that litter my untouched skin don't drip normalcy on everything my shaking hand tries, and fails, to grasp at.

I'm sorry that I'm not the mirror that you wished me to be.
when you looked into my eyes you hoped to see yourself,
but all you saw was broken pieces and sharp edges.

I'm sorry that you asked for galaxies and stars and I provided you with a black hole,
consuming my being in on itself,
leaving you cold and lifeless.

I'm sorry that I don't fit the mold that you've sculpted everyone else into,
I guess I'll remain a lump of clay,
unique not like the rest but also cold and quiet.

Maybe one day,
I'll stop being so sorry.

There is something tragically intangible about space that makes it so beautiful,
infinite light years of nothing
out there to be explored.
it's terrifyingly real,
many have been there,
but I will never go.
Space is something of the subconscious,
you can only create and appreciate it's essence
in the prison of grey matter a top your head.

And though I've never been there I know
if I ever collided with a passing star,
I'd caress it's sides and combust into it's center.
melting,
blending,
becoming one.

how badly I want to sacrifice my soul into a black hole,
how sad it is that I'll never get the chance.

how incredibly similar space is to you
how beautifully intangible you are.

how badly I want to love you,
how sad it is I'll never get the chance.

some picture life as a labyrinth
a maze,
concrete
and exact.

they claim we spend our time here looking for that one final answer,
the way out.

but the irony is that there is nothing at all that makes life concrete or exact.
so as the walls of the labyrinth crumble in your mind

see,

that life is an ocean
an infinite high tide
where the salt stings at the whites of your eyes
and throws your body like a rag doll into its shadowy depths.

there is no knowing where it will take you,
in the end,
when the storm desists,
some may end up on a beach with everything they've ever wanted
and some with nothing at all.

we are at the mercy of the tide,
that in itself is the horrific beauty in life.

She was the destination,

a opening, a pinpoint
that stood out on the map
of claustrophobic road ways
and broken down dirt paths.

As they all intersected,
each one trying to out do the other,
she stood alone.  

They weren't like her,

Sure,
more feet had traveled along them each day,
than eyes that had ever been laid upon her.

But that's what made her special.
the roads were only appreciated in passing,
she,
was were civilizations built their homes.

Men from the farthest corners of the earth,
searched for her.
but she locked her feelings,
the directions to her soul,
in bottle and casted it off into the ocean.

I never really liked the water,
but my life was never worth living with out her,
So I've spent years searching the ocean floor,
hoping,
praying,
that one day my foot will stop abruptly
on a glass bottle,
and her heart would be mine.

I'd travel past the roads,
smirking at their insignificance
as they blurred by in the rearview mirror.

I'd hike up cliffs,
chop down trees,
where ever it might take me,
till I could see her,
and finally,
be
at
peace.

She fell in love with November,
for the way the sun shined down on
decaying leafs
and chilling temperatures danced upon the tips of her fingers,
providing her with a perfect balance between life and death.

She presented herself to the world in this manner,
always happy and bright, but never content,
as days carried on cracks in her skin led to trails of pieces on the ground.
Her eyes often flickered between a beautiful orange and a sickly brown.
Her heart, as much as it wanted to be warm was deafly cold.

She was a mystery.

And as December rolled in and the world froze over in darkness,
so did she.
The only light in her life was the moon.
how badly I wish she could've loved a month like June.

How beautiful it is to lock your self inside
to turn the volume all the way up
and let the words of your favorite artist,
your most compatible soul, paint the bathroom walls,
with tranquil melodies.

How free it feels to let each note fill the recesses of your mind,
until you are hollow no more

How rebellious it must be stand in the spot where you and him made love, and let the warm shower water cover your icy veins and open wounds with embrace and dignity

How badly you want to scream and shout and declare your anger unto the world,
how badly you want to shatter mirrors and forget the memories,

Well darling, shatter away,
Graffiti the walls with words that make you cringe,
rip the doors off their hinges,
ignite the memories in flames till your mind is burning,
not for the past,
but for something new
something grand.

Throw the ashes in the ground and let them cultivate and grow,
into something they were never capable of being.
break down the barriers.
defy the odds of what this cookie cutter universe of fallen stars and broken dreams has to offer.

You're not like them.
you're not a fallen star,
your edges are never stagnant
you're like the sun,
you rise
you fall
you have your lows
but even when the shadows off the night lurk in,
we still see your glow.

Maybe he thought you were special
because of your silence,
How your aura came of as depressingly shy to him.

To him you were his puzzle,
He wanted to twist and scramble around in your mind with the joy and innocent wonder of a five year old.

A discovery,
That's what you were you him.
Something untouched.
And when he touched you,
You were his world.

As he traced his finger down the curves of your hips they become beautiful grass laden hills  

When he kissed your lips he felt like Adam taking a bite from an apple in the garden of Eden.

Until then you were undiscovered,
A beauty shut out from the world,
like most beauties are.

So he made the voyage
Made his home in your heart
Cultivated a civilization of nurturing care. You thought he was something like Jesus but when you look at it now he was more like Colombus

A lot more damage. A lot less to remember.

Poems written in blood
Maybe he just needs some one
To break off the shadows

From his balcony above a man watches down on a little town in Missouri,  
he pinpoints a bleak silver container as it slingshots into the darkening shadows above.

It yells to him,
"help, get me out of this awful place."
A trial of slate grey smoke follows the container as if it were it's overly attached mother and within a second pulls it back down into the atmosphere.
After descending the container skids across a schoolyard, rolls off the sidewalk and crakes into minuscule pieces.
From the cracks tear gas spills out in all directions covering the once quiet little down in terror, relinquishing it of any tranquility that remained.

The man on the balcony sits and observes the events that have unfolded.
From his perch he can not tell black from white.
He can not tell man from women.
Turban from top hat,
child from elder.
he can not see if interlocked hands declaring their love and denouncing death that blares from police megaphones, are hetero
or ****.
He can not see who's pride is enflamed by blue uniforms
or who's mouth's are covered by dew rags to prevent themselves from speaking a death sentence.

The gas covers it all.

He can only hear footsteps running away,
guns shots following the footsteps,
and unfinished prayers as bodies stain the side walk.

In this moment,
the chess game of life becomes not black versus white
but human versus human.
And the man wonders, from his balcony above,
why it must take weapons that destroy equality,
to make us see each other as equal.

She will not remember your love as glorified free will, never ending oceans of purity, rolling meadows of green flowing grass covering her memories in hope and security.  She will not remember your love as vintage lip stick stained romance, framed in uneven Polaroid photos pinned upon her wall.

She will remember your love as religion, in the sense that it was absolute and ever present, but even she couldn't prove it actually existed.
Religion, because every sunday she got down on her knees and lowered her head, worshiping your love, worshiping you.

You were her God. Piecing together her shattered bones, sewing layers of her skin into a work of art, and then tearing them apart day after day in search for perfection.

You built her heart into an everlasting church of fortitude and self confidence, and then left out stain glassed windows so every once in a while you could peak in, just to make sure you were the one being worshiped.

Inside the church you placed preachers and priest to tell tales of loyalty, to make her recite her vows of your love before bed, to comfort and denounce her fears, whenever questions of doubt began to arise.

Finally, you cursed her, falsely called her out for her infidelity, put her upon a wooden stake and set it a blaze.

"Go to Hell" you told her,
and even though this is all a metaphor,
when she wakes up every morning to the sight of shadows and cracks in the walls,
when every step feels like she's walking on endless burning coals,

She actually believes, that in fact she is in hell.

The blood spattered streets paint the fire trucks red as they speed by following screams for help that will never arrive.
Tears,
from citizens, loved ones, from children waiting cluelessly for their father's return,
paint the early morning sky blue. The sky shines bright in contrast to dark, suffocating shadows of smoke that haunt the city streets.
On that day memories and buildings alike collapse in front of white ghostly faces.
People come to rest, motionless in a city that never sleeps.

But tomorrow,
there is no red blood or gore
no blue tears or sorrow
no pale white faces stricken with fear,
because when the smoke clears
and America's lungs can finally take a breathe,
all that's left is a flag standing alone and swaying freely,
possessing the same three colors,
that had haunted a nation just a day before,
but meaning so much more,
red, white and blue.

Time moves like a wounded solider tip toeing on shattered glass
Each hour is a new bullet hole in the delicately paper-mache'd memories that cloud his withered psyche.
Each minute he's forced to watch indifferently as hope and craving rush out of the freshly open wounds, leaving his body in the form of thick crimson blood.
Each second brings a new broken bone
scattered pieces of you along the bathroom floor.
They find their home next to the empty bottle of whiskey,
another lost cause,
another part of the puzzle,
that will never be found.

There's is a rusty orange clad brick building
perched upon a mossy green hill
everyday day we sit in the same seats
and look out the same glass that locks us in
and gaze down upon the hill
hoping,
searching for something more out of this life
something that fits our desires,
something we will never know.
Because they say the more we are sedentary,
the more our intelligence will grow.
Surely they have it all figured out all wrong
what they have created is  
a cold hearted machine.
A machine of memorization,
A machine of 'the right way'
the 'only way'
of 'yes please's'
and never of 'no's.'
They say if one morning we decided to turn around
and never look back we would drop dead.
But what happens when my house forecloses,
because no one taught me how to handle money?
What happens when I turn to pills to keep me alive
because no one told me the basic skills of survival?
What happens when I am out on the street,
frigid and alone,
with a cardboard box and a bottle of liquor as my only two friends?
Will algebra help me?
What about Chemistry?
Will those pain staking hours of note taking
help me pick up the pieces of my life?
No.
Surely then I will be dead.
Gone.
Along with my intelligence
and my creativity.
Six feet under
that mossy green hill.

Down in Beverly Hills
Drowning in high end champagne
And pure white *******.
Getting high under palm trees
With Benjamin Franklin on his knees
Praising every little success and every little achievement.
Nobody believes it when you say you have life on string.
That you tell jokes for a living,
All the critics say you're the next big thing.
Yet the hardest thing to comprehend is when your mother comes to lend you a hand one day,
and to her dismay finds that what you told her was the other way around.
Your grip on life turned out to be loose,
and now life has the string around you, tied into a perfectly tight noose.
The fame was too much
Smiles came not nearly enough.
Even for the rich and famous,
Life can be tough.

He stands a top the moss covered hill
as he looks down on the world that
he used to quiver at with fear.
His eyes scan the grey horizon that feels
as indifferent and numb as the emotions
that race through his veins
the mist from the ocean underneath
engulfs his lungs.
His knees buckle as he becomes weak.
He used to be afraid of the world toppling down on him,
But this afternoon he topples down on the world,
from his mossy perch.
Either way the result is still the same.

Once there was a man who looked out his city apartment down at society and never liked what he saw,
so he left and moved away from it all, where the trees grow tall and the grass spreads out wide.
Taller and wider than the skyscrapers he one stared at in awe.
He grew his beard long and kept his worries short.
Vines grew around his thighs and dirt filled is eyes,
but the only darkness in his life was the star crossed night time sky.
Back in society
everyone continued to shower and shave as fast as they found new friends.
Even though there was no vines around there legs they sulked through streets dragging the heavy weight of their ego with them.
Even though there was no dirt in their eyes they were blind
to the truth.
Their life's were dark and dreary even when the sun shined bright.
Yet they always felt bad for the man who left them and their amazing life.

It's like cooking something for the first time,
burning your hand and never wanting to cook again.
Even though you know what you would cook deserves to be on the menu of some five star restaurant. One that lovers go to, to sip fine wine and stare off at the sunset as they learn how to fall in love all over again. You still can't bring yourself to do it. You can't turn on the stove because every time you do that same fiery sensation rushes through your veins, reminding you what it's like to burn. You shutter, trying to think what life would be like if you never turned the stove on in first place.

A time of hollow silence
A time of tranquility
A time of hope and dreams
A time for hushed pleas
When elders wake to a cup of tea
A time for you
A time for me

Every time he looks in the mirror
he sees the devil staring back
with a malevolent sneer
he sees death in his eyes,
all the lies he's ever told
everything he's not supposed to be
and everything he will never know
he sees a kid, supposedly filled with glee
but he knows all he really is,
is a poisoned **** just trying to grow.
A ****,
trying to blossom in a world filled with trees
everyone knows that bees never pollinate weeds.

Adults tell us that we are doomed as a society. That we spend to much time on our bright little screens. They say our minds will never be that bright, colorful or innovative because we are all so twisted in the black wasteland of materialism.
Materialism, that's where it all starts right? They act like we rolled out of bed one day and decided we'd add it to the dictionary, like no one had ever heard of it before. Do they forget that they rolled into bed one night and created us. Then naturally nurtured us, filling our undeveloped brains with everything we never knew. Do they remember what it's like to be a teenager? To be right in center of the horribly repulsive world of want. Because that's what being a teenager is; going insane over the fact that you can finally make this world what you want it to be and obsessively hoping and begging for it all by the simple age of seventeen.
Seventeen? Most seventeen year olds are incapable of loving simple things, like early morning rain showers or the smell of spring on freshly cut blades of grass. But to our own fault, we want to be in love with the most complex thing this world has to offer; another teenager. Most adults are probably brainwashed by their cookie cutter work schedule any way, so surely they do not remember what it is like to want. If they don't understand being a teenager how can we explain to them the obsession of technology. They bash us for never taking our eyes off of things like twitter and always having a friend to reply to. A lot of the time we even bash ourselves. I believe we don't give ourselves enough credit. Always wanting to see what's new or whats next is not an empty action. The desire to scroll is, even though we may not realize it, a desire for intelligence. We can never seem to leave our brains empty. The obsession with technology is actually an obsession with information. We can, if we choose, channel this into amazing things and maybe end up rescuing the world, not dooming it like our parents, teachers and guardians stubbornly believe we will.

If you were fire.
you would ignite from the tip of a cigarette,
your blaze would dance and flicker,
drawing my lips in.
I would inhale every single bit of your addictive being,
you would fill my lungs with thick, deadly smoke,
enough to make me sick.
I would exhale quickly,
blowing the smoke screen that is your lies,
back into the world for a true addict to find.
because smoking you would be a hobby,
not something I'd be truly invested in
right?  
I would cough and gag
promising my self to never come back to the poison that is you.
but my eyes would always wander and catch a glimpse of you, the fire..
dancing..
flickering...
and regrettably, I would inhale once again.
The funniest part is you're not fire, nor a cigarette,
you're a human being.
Yet you're still more beautiful, addictive and toxic then that flame will ever be, and just like the cigarette I always end up coming back for more. Always inhaling more then my flimsy lungs can hold.

Society is plain
Society is black,
Society is what you forcefully swallow for a midnight snack
Society is blood that drips down your eyes
blinding you, keeping everything in disguise.

Society is a swollen throat trying to breathe.
It imprisons your mind when your mind tries to leave.
Society tells you:
“You can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“You never will.”

Society is the voice in your head
telling you life isn’t a thrill.
it kills, hurts and tries
to feed you lies as you pitifully cry.

Society tells you that smoking the green,
kills more brain cells then staring at the television screen.

Society takes the color out of the sky,
and lights up your twitter.

It is never shy and never ever a quitter.

Society is a spy that no government can catch
because society is the government, waiting with a watchful eye.

Society is also dead trees, wilted leafs
and smoggy factory smoke passing by.

But most importantly society is you
and I.

If our love affair was a popular place for family vacations, You would be an ocean and I would be the beach. You would embrace me and kiss my outer edges every morning. Just enough for me to fall in love with your waves and your curves,  before the sun would awake and you would drift away so it wouldn't catch you fooling around.

and now,
the sun is asleep,
it's dark,
i'm lonely,
and there certainly isn't any families running around.
(Children don't like being teased)

His life is an air plane:
confined, cluttered and utterly boring,
inches away from him is euphoric beauty, but all he can do is stare at it blankly, watch it go by and wish he were on the other side.
It's not palpable beauty, it's as real as his dreams (non existent)
and as obtainable as the first class seats of life he so badly desires (hopeless)
If he were insane, the glass that keeps him from it may even laugh at him.
but maybe he is insane, because on his loneliest days he gulps down his disgusting cup of coffee and caresses the side walls of the plane,
cursing every little gritty bump and groove,
because they are everything that has ever held him back.
Even on his best days he prays and weeps, yelling out to no one in particular.
begging for the walls to melt away so he can fall.
Fall into the beauty he has envied his whole life,
where he can choke on the clouds and grasp at the sky as the plane slowly fades out of view,
where he can experience joy and peace, if only for a second, until he comes barreling down into a crater of land.
and if he dies on his final descent, at least he died happily.

12:15 on a Saturday night:
Oh how I do love when your eyes shine so bright,
and I wish you could be here,
so I could hold you tight,
I'd mold the curves in your lips,
and straighten the crack in your spine,
I'd lay you down, love you and whisper
*Everything is going to be fine

I could write about how the stars in sky,
reflect like the gleam in your eyes and connect us,
even though we are thousands of miles apart.

I could compare the curve of the moon,
to the glossy, upward bend in my lips,
when ever a thought of you passes by.

I could say you are like a working man's morning cup of Joe,
warm and uplifting,
something that always keeps him going.

But all of that seems way to complicated right now,
right now I need simple,
I need you,
to lay down with me,
and forget what this world is even here for.
Forget about the stars and the moon,
forget about work and ****** cups of coffee.
Because you in my arms is a big enough world for me.

If we consider ourselves equal, all on the same playing field, man next to man, women next to women, women next to man. Not one higher then the other I guarantee you half the conflict in the world becomes scared and runs away. Conflict is mischievous. Conflict is corrupt and the only way conflict succeeds is by using our own ignorant selfs against each other. Our ego's do half of conflict's work. If we fight against each other we become easy targets for things like conflict, evil and harm. They simply line us up on our respective pedestals, however high they may be, and shoot. One by one we give ourselves up and become victims. Conflict's job becomes a little harder when we become one. If we all stand on the same pedestal, blindly knocking us over doesn't work anymore, we have become stronger, and leave ourself more open to things like peace, happiness and love. The only challenge becomes convincing our greed and narcissism that they need to sit down and take a nap. Their time is over and our time is now.

Exactly a year ago my life was in a horrible place. You can't even call it a horrible place though, because horrible places have big, fat warning signs reading: "DO NOT ENTER, YOU MAY BE EATEN ALIVE" everyone already knows they're horrible. This place I was in was more of a place of darkness, of lonely shadows shouting out for help, even though no one was there. This place not only ate me alive, it chewed me up, spit me out and burned my remains to ashes, right along with any hope I had left. Everyone said I just needed a flashlight to get me out of the shadows, I laughed, thinking they'd never understand.

But then I rediscovered hope, in the form of beautiful brown eyes and playful giggles that reached out and pulled me into a safer, warmer place. She not only has given me hope. But much more than that, she's also given me reassurance, she's given me fortitude, she's given me light in the darkest times. Now I finally understand, life can be dark sometimes, but there's always a light to get you out if you look hard enough.

One warm, peaceful, night at a bar down the street,
I ran into an elderly man
who's uncountable wrinkles and scars,
told the stories of one thousand men.
some of sorrow and some of joy
As I took to the creaky stool next to him,
he blew out a puff of smoke from his cigarette.
his fingers curled around the smoke,
almost like he was trying to grasp it
like he had let go of too many things in his long past,
and letting go of one more, even something as meaningless as cigarette smoke,
may have pushed him over the edge.

Next his eyes caught mine,
he leaned over and handed me a rose,
"deliver this to my wife." he whispered
"she's ill and I do not travel well"
"I have not admired her beauty in quite some time."

He was different and mysterious,
but that only intrigued me more,
I nodded and took the rose,
attached was a address and a room number:
Saint Anne's Hospital

Upon arriving at the room,
to my shock there was no one there!
just thousands of thousands of roses
and a note that read:
R.I.P to my beloved 1920-1963

Fifty years later and some how this crazy old man had never given up hope.
Not once.
Not on his wife,
or the love he had for her.
We all could use a little of him in our lives.

That one wonderful hug,
Made my whole entire week,
You came to my side and picked me up,
When the stress began to peak,
It was like knifes in my side,
Knowing I couldn't see you,
I dropped my mind somewhere in the darkness,
Till everything around me turned a sad blue.
These last couple days there's no more blue.
Just a whole lot of love.
And a whole lot of you.

I've always loved watching the sunset.
I suppose the same way I love watching your eyes close,
as we dive in for a long, velvet like kiss.
They're almost synonyms of each other,
They possess the same beautiful waves of bright, torrid, purple and pink,
exploding in the sky,
and through out my mind
and then one final, soft crescendo of descending darkness.

I've always loved watching the moon rise,
I suppose you are the moon,
my radiant flame guiding me through the dark,
always there,
as our hands embrace one another and intertwine
like two shooting stars, crossing the same night sky,
never worrying about where they may end up next.

But as much as I love the sunset,
and I love the moon,
neither compares to the beautiful princess I see in front of me,
when the sun rises,
and our eyes creak open,
like the flash of day through that dreary window.

One day I glanced in the mirror,
and what I saw was hard to believe,
there was not just one person in my glaring reflection,
there was two,
who was the other person?
to my satisfaction,
it was you.
You wrapped your beautiful self around me,
and said "Baby don't fret."
I suppose we are one now,
and I have no regret,
because simply put,
you are perfection,
And I have come to love everything
about my new found reflection.

I was going to write
But the words got caught in my throat on their way to paper,
I choked
And vomited them across the floor.
I tried to pick up the pieces,
As I did, words scrambled around each other,
What was meant to say evil
Turned Into love when I accidentally picked up an O , instead of an I.
Deviltry and liar  got lost in the mess and all I got out of both was alive.
I guess all I'm trying to say is, everyone is going to collapse.
When you do collapse, picking up the pieces is only half the battle.
Sometimes you have to pick up the right pieces.
Sometimes you have to leave your deviltries and the liars out of your life,
So you can finally love being alive.
Sometimes you have to choke on the wrong words,
In order to pick up the right letters.