tragedy is the makeup she wears,
tears of pain wash away her hopeless dreams,
the scars on her skin show the unforgotten past,
the black hole from which all happiness in her life is drained,
she holds her hand out,
endlessly,
hopelessly,
wishing for someone to grab it,
to take her away,
wishing for someone to smother her fire,
yet her candle still burns,

as i look in her eyes,
i see not the sorrow,
not the tortured and beaten soul that she sees,
i see life,
reality and compassion,
the raw truth,
that is unseen by most that look at her,
i see the most ravishing and divine creature to ever exist on this meager planet,
my love for her is not from lust or selfish needs,
its from the soul,
and that love will never stop burning,
one day i will take her hand,
and make her mine,
make up for all the other men that have failed her before me,
but until then,
i wait from a distance,
cold and alone,
with my hand out,
endlessly,
hopelessly,

I see you each night.
We sit cross-legged and wide-eyed
Staring into each other's souls.
You're so close I can feel your warmth.
I hear your breathing-
Calm and comforting.
I feel my heartbeat connect with yours.
I reach out to touch you,
I need to feel the electricity.
But you vanish-
I open my eyes to reality,
And you're still 600 miles away.

There was an Old Man of Calcutta,
Who perpetually ate bread and butter,
Till a great bit of muffin,
On which he was stuffing,
Choked that horrid Old Man of Calcutta.

She is the catalyst that makes my atoms split,
Fission in my blood, full of energy and heat.
And though I don't know my location or velocity,
I'm certain that I'm falling,
Trying to reach a grounded state
And form a bond.

Sharp eyes and sharper beak,
Senses keen and predatory,
Talons waiting to rend and tear;
Yet, still a thing of beauty,
Of wisdom and of calm,
Now soaring through the clouds
To the ethereal eyrie.

Dear Jay.

I know your name is not really Jay, but at the moment I can't remember what it is. Somewhere between the fire in my throat, the spinning top in my skull, the sixth bottle of beer, I've forgotten.

I'm sorry.

What I want to say is, don't expect this to be poetic. I've written tons of letters, I think most of them are merely corny **** disguised as poems, but I promise you this won't be just as sickening.

This is some awful-tasting beer. Who the **** gave permission for these kinds of things to be sold? But then again I think this is my ninth bottle--I've got no right to complain.

What was I going to say again? Before I finally realized I'm drinking liquid crap and I have no intention of stopping.

Oh, right.

What I want to say is, you've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Makes me want to pluck them out of their sockets and shovel them down my mouth so a part of you will live inside me.

Hold the **** up, that didn't come out right.

I'm sorry.

What I want to say is, your eyes are hands that touch, that hold, that strangle, that drown me in almost the same nothingness liquor gives me. Your hands are lips that kiss, caress, cradle the emptiness of a mouth full of glass shards. Your lips are knives, and claws, and doors that never open.

And I must be really drunk if I call you my crush, because you are built with words in my mind, screams and cries and echoes of nightmares. No, you're not my crush.

You are the reason I'm sitting in a throne of broken bottles and spilled liquor, shattered glass and stinking *****, beads of jaded crystals and tears of blood and water and where the **** did the rest of my beer go?

No, I didn't mean to include the last part.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry because you once told me I should stop drinking, because I do stupid things when I'm drunk, like right now, I'm writing to a guy who doesn't give a ****, and I can't even string the right words together, God, it hurts to think, to feel, God, I can't stop thinking about you.

I'm sorry.

You once asked me why I can't stop drinking. Because beer tastes like crap, why the hell would anyone want to drink those stuff? At that time I had no answer, but now I do.

I'm drinking this liquid **** because I want to stop feeling like ****, but it won't stop hurting, it won't stop hurting, *******, it won't ******* stop hurting!

Now my eyes are bleeding, my wrists are weeping crimson tears, I don't remember when I picked up a broken piece of glass and slit my own veins, and now the scent of blood and tears and alcohol and ***** is a choking entrapment, I thought it would stop hurting.

I don't even remember why I started drinking in the first place, why I feel so angry and miserable and lonely. But I remember you. I remember every last piece of you, flashes of lightning in my fists, thunderclaps in my chest, earthquakes beneath my skin, I remember you, you gathering me broken in your arms. I remember you drenched in my blood, in my sorrow.

But you're not here right now, no one is picking up the shattered pieces of me strewn across the velvet carpet, no one is holding me, no one cares, no one is helping, God!

It won't stop hurting.

I'm sorry.

Help me, it hurts to feel, it hurts to think, it hurts to remember, every-*******-thing hurts, *******, help me!

Someone help me, someone care for me, someone fix me, someone, anyone...

More beer, please.


-DA