On a night when fireworks go off as fast as the thoughts in my head,
High wasted shorts toy with the eyes of over confident males,
And new home cooked memories fill the air,
I'd feel a lot more "free" if I was spending it with you.

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.

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.

Her broken heart cries out to me,
If only you could see,
That ingesting those pills,
From the devils plea
Hurt more than you,
It hurt her,
And involuntarily
Me....

With a foot stuck between two trees,
thoughts fail to flow,
blood does too.

Which tree do you chop down,
to set yourself free,
or burry yourself under.

Could you just cut off the foot all together?
Killing two birds with one stone?
Surely you won't make the wrong decision,
or will you?

Here's to the writers,
The hopeless romantics,
The dreamers who create their stories with cuts of a knife in paper made of everyone who has ever told them they can't.
Here's to the people who said they can,
The ladies who have smudged enough of their mascara with tears, to create ink on paper.
The men who go against society and say "I love poetry."
Here's to the thinkers,
The achievers,
The good doers.
Here's to you,
May your romance be hopeful instead of hopeless,
Something I can finally say.

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.

Reality throws him through the wind shield,
Every glass shard that pierces his body is like a slap in the face, a stab in back,
Theft of his dignity.
As blood begins to rush out,
So do the memories.
Distant memories,
But just as fresh and painful,
As they were just a few years ago.
He wants to get up,
He needs to move on,
He dreams of picking himself off the pavement,
Covering all the wounds,
Forgetting everything.
But as he lays on the side of the road,
Drowning himself in the pool of cold  regret that has formed around him,
He looks up,
And all he can see,
Is red..

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

If writing was a drug,
I think I would need,
Rehab

What would life be like with no time?
No order?
The reality is we are salves to a inanimate ticks.
second by second,
minute by minute,
Hours, months and years all hold us prisoner.
We eat, sleep and plan our life's around these numbers.
If there was no time would our mind feel forced to eat at certain times? We could sleep on our own schedule,  live our lives under the stars and sleep under the sun. With no time also means no age. Less labels, less you're too young, you're too old.
More equality, more freedom, peace and happiness
No time.

What is beauty?
Would you even know if it slapped you in the face,
turned around,
and backed over you?

No. You probably wouldn't.
You'd be too busy trying to dip your feet in the water of the next social trend,
You would run right by it on your way to pick up your pumpkin spiced whatcha-ma-call-it,
Do those even taste good?
As far as i'm concerned there's too much tobacco smoke in everyones lungs to know what real fresh air is like.

So take some time out of your life,
lay down in an open field with some one you love,
and just think.
think about what it is like to look down on the world from a star,
or look up at the night sky form the bottom of the ocean.

Take some time to realize that you're probably rushing through life,
and you're missing out on how truly beautiful this world is.

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.

Everyone seems to need that one gateway to another land,
A better place,
where you can see the unseen,
grasp the untouched,
swallow your sweet sorrow.
This normally comes through a puff of smoke,
or lines of coke.
Yet I run from the idea of being thrown of the pedestal.
My life is perfect why would I want to diminish that?
For the first time I want to keep my feet on the ground,
and leave my dreams for clouds.
Because even on the ground their is an incredible view,
and the only drug I need,
Is you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Being sad is a waste of time,
Think about it,
You are not a god,
You can not control anything,
Bad things are going to happen,
You're going to cry, It's only human nature.
Sometimes you need to let your demons out,
So let them out, get it up, brush the dirt off your shoulder
and smile.
You only live for so long,
Don't waste your time being angry about what could've happened,
Focus on what can happen.

How we are so scared of the darkness covering the night sky,
That we never stop to count the stars.

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.

I hate my past, I hate everything about it, I hate how this shadow of darkness, Puts shade over things that are bright and beautiful, I hate how it holds me back, It's tattooed in my mind down to the smallest details.
Unremovable

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