Here me when I speak,
For I am the hidden king,
The advisor of the strings,
Which control this changing land.

By my own hand,
And in my own vision,
By my own right,
And slithering decision.

Your future is decided,
By my light-hearted words,
In a world so divided,
By kings of pawns-worth.

Let no man go,
Unpunished for his deeds,
His just reward or woe,
For twisted acts of greed.

Let no man decide,
That he is above the rest,
For it is only I,
Who holds the very best.

Of interest, of heart,
Of all that falls apart without my say,
I hold the strings,
And my fellow kingsmen  obey.

For it is I the advisor,
Who understands the truth,
I am the king’s decider,
My word is absolute.

We dig through our old memories, to see what we can save, in hopes of finding remedies, to get us through our daze.

Our days of dragging moments, and things we do let slip, we dig to find atonement, for things we can't admit.

Things like seconds wasted, never doing what we should, we dig to find ourselves, never doing any good.

But through all our years of digging, through all the years we've lost, we've run the risk of rigging, so we always pay the cost.

This gamble is a risky one, yet many do still play, in hopes of finding time of old, we gamble time away.

To lose is to win, yet still we feel the pain, and still we play again, ever losing what we gain.

And so I tell you now, don't fall into this game, many have lost before you, and you will do the same.

To know the touch of sweet regret,
Is to wish for time to give and let,
So lighten the sands and please regress,
Back to days I can’t forget.

To see the memories ebb and flow,
From face to faces I do not know,
Still etched within and laughing so,
Oh please dear years, just let them go.

I’ve asked for time both small and grand,
To stop it’s ever-onward plans,
Though seconds, hours, years have spanned,
Rewind the clock and ticking hands.

A poison spreads today,
From all the words which carry weight,
Spoken true or never heard,
We pay so much for every word,

Consider then the asking price,
Of lending ears or some advice,
Or open arms fit to embrace,
Forget the words and make a change.

That’s all it takes for most you see,
To shed the weight and become free,
But who am I to speak to you,
On things that I was forced to do?

The definition of a man to me is morally driven. For good or ill, you will stand next to your ideals with courage and certainty. You will know who you are, but not to be defined so rigidly that opposition will be met bitterly.
Flexibility is paramount.

Though I know It is not an easy thing to muster a clear head in the midst of an argument, by contrast it is far too easy to write of it. But never forget, more good comes from wit than temperament.

I do not care for the way you carry yourself.
In fact I’d prefer you to shelf any ideas of who you are meant to be. By handshake, or appearance, or by words from me.

It is a scary thing to think that the truth of who we are is solely our responsibility. But if you decide to heed any advice from me, forget who you are ideally supposed to be.

From shade to shade,
I’ve danced and played,
From red to blue,
In every hue,
And all the colors,
Shine  the same,

Yet separate still,
By stubborn will,
All are different,
Within the frame,
And so they judge,
In such a way,
To live divided,
In this place.

By earthy base,
Or dullest-grays,
Separate too,
By weight and age,
Baby Blue or heavy states,
Like green and brown,
So simply named.

Some are dark,
And others light,
Marked by names,
Like black and white,
But still and so,
They have a place,
On the canvas,
All the same.

I’ve spent my whole life running a rat-race and chasing deadlines without ever finding the time to live for something more.

And I try to express how upsetting this is to me in written form, but it seems the older I get, the longer I spend here, the more I second guess the words so clearly set in my
head, until there’s nothing left but something that’s already been said, and I think..“That’s not worth writing.”

So the light within me fades. Replaced by everything that used to be, accompanied by memories that once to me were comforting, but laugh at me just out of reach. I’ll never write like that again, so passionate in type of speech.

So I resign by way of pen, because I never practiced what I preach. Living here and now beats living there and then, heed my warning if you please.

When I first met you, I thought the world of you. At least, that’s what my memories tell me. In honesty, I probably didn’t consider you as anything more than normal in the beginning. I don’t have many memories of you left, and the few I do have are rose-tinted and faded to the background of my mind, residing in my dreams, in the words I write to chase after you, to pull out a memory of when I knew who I was. Back when we were together.

The truth is, I don’t know when you left an impression on me, and I don’t know why. Maybe it was something about the idea of the outcast and the black-sheep finding happiness together that spoke to the romantic in me. Whatever it was, it was real, God knows it was real. I wrote poems for you every day, you’re the reason I started in the first place, you know? But I’ve said that before.

I think I just want to know why you stuck around so much at the end of the day. When we parted ways, you stuck around for me and I don’t know why. You’ve colored every attempt at love since, and every time I try, I have to keep telling myself that the indifference I feel when looking in the eyes of someone else, is love, but that’s a lie. Or..is it?

I don’t know. Maybe at the end of the day, I keep chasing you because I want to know it meant something. I want the story to have a happy ending because I did the right thing. So I keep going. Finding you inside of another name. So far you’ve been married happily twice, and I’m still waiting...

The air seems cool and crisp in memory, and perhaps it was, then. Or maybe I'm simply lost now, and looking back to find my way, I couldn't say for sure.

I do know that something is off, though not to be penned to a face or a name. But what then could cause such unrest in so young a soul, to feel old like canyons, withered away?

Teenage angst may play a part, though years late on que, still seeing bits of broken heart, but this is nothing new.

Maybe then some trait of time does haunt me in my thoughts, a mid-life-crisis In my prime, to keep me lost to some degree.

My only way to deal with life is simply passing by, so I see it in nostalgic view, a vague impression of present state to keep me walking onward.

A writer born,
Writes ‘til death,
From early morn,
To final breath.

With pen in hand,
And parchment-slip,
He shows command,
Of wit and quip.

A tragedy here,
A comedy there,
To summon both tears,
And laughter fair.

Evokes in you,
A smile wide,
To show what’s true,
What’s locked inside.

A mystery then,
To speak your name,
To spark within,
That fading flame.

Of hope and love,
Of things forgot,
A memory of,
A world we lost.

For the sake of my own mental case, I must brace for the fact that I lack the capacity to write like I once did..to understand that what was, cannot bare the thought of what is and visa versa, to realize quick and fast that the past for me is a curse worth breaking..because it’s making me doubt who I am.

It used to be in music. In the moments we define by how divine they are in the instant they pass..in those moments I would see..love, life, and tragedy played out before me as they have been for so many others. I began to make comparisons between the heart, the soul, the struggle for the independence of thought and the understanding that striving for freedom of self means letting others define who you will be, if only a little.

That was me then..a quiet soul among men who found great joy in describing the world with words like “soul” and “shadow.” But from my recollection, I made them sound awesome. And maybe that’s the trick, to realize that the only worth something has is that which you are willing to give, and I should strive to live every day with my best foot forward..but who am I to talk? I was never supposed to have a leg to stand on.

From earth to sea I’ve seen it all,
But none compete with angel’s fall,
Such grace and beauty is unfair,
In mundane life I do declare.

From eyes to smile it is clear,
She’s worth the while and sincere,
But to attempt upon a heart,
Well how could I ever start?

A man of dreams and simple wants,
I have no means or wealth to flaunt,
But hope enough to wish it true,
To toughen up and see it through,

So I ask now in awkward haste,
In quiet, shy, and nervous state,
Will you accept this only chance,
Or reject a great romance?

There's always a period of change. This blood of ours has a history of grand revolution, if we can't find a solution to our lives, we simply change to be someone else, and who could blame us for opting to run, besides ourselves?

We toss and turn, we earn the trust of those we love, and burn the bridges of our memory. Over night we seem to lose all traces of our former selves, and throw the remains of our old prison cells overboard.

We cast aside the truth for lies, in hopes of finding a better answer than the one we had before. We give ourselves a clever guise, worthy of a king, though jesters we are born.

And who could blame us, besides ourselves for chasing a fools dream? A fact of life, this seems to be, that change occurs constantly.

A sink into the sorrow river,
would set my mind at ease,
To feel so weightless and alone,
with bottled memories.

I'd count the drops as they peer through,
That empty venom glass,
Each and every one a friend,
down to lonely last.

And what then will I own,
but the bitter drink of swill,
To fill my glass to brim with cheer,
To sit here sulking still.

Remembering how my life was grand,           
Before it all was taken,
While failing then to understand,
how sorely I'm mistaken.

This life I have is still my own,
To do with as I please,
Yet still I choose to drink alone,
Sinking down with ease.

There you are old friend, I haven’t seen you since...how long’s it been? Doesn’t matter. You’re here again. So why don’t you pull up a seat? Please, it’s like you never left. Emptiness on tap, I cry until I’m deaf.

You thought childhood was bad? Well this **** gets worse. See I’ve been around the block now and I know how this works. You can cry as loud as you want if no one sees the hurt. And you get front row seats, VIP, for everything it’s worth.

But I’ve heard that it’s nothing, a token joke at best. This life that we’re all loving, is nothing but a guess. So don’t tell me that I’m blessed or that I have the best and biggest heart. My life’s a work of art but the canvas fell apart.

Here’s a piece for them and you, but I hate to break the news. A pictures worth a thousand words but mine aren’t any use. Since the day you left my side without a muse, my life’s passed me by, and I’m back to what I knew.

I’d say that I love you,
But I worry in truth,
That I love you in plain-form,
Is nothing too new.

I could write about angels,
Who soar high above,
Who symbolize hope,
And feelings of love.

I could say that you are one,
And tell you it’s true,
That I think often always,
About me and you.

But I worry too much,
That it’s always cliche,
To say that I love you,
In just such a way.

So I take up a pen,
And dry out the ink,
Writing this way and that,
About what I think.

How I think you’re an angel,
Who soars high above,
On gentle white wings,
With a halo of love.

Or just how often,
Through the course of a day,
I lose all my breath,
When you take it away.

I could say all these things,
But it’s all so cliche,
So I tear up the paper,
With nothing to say.

Fast or slow in equal measure,
with ticks or tocks to keep the beat,
Friend to some or foe forever,
until the bitter end they meet.

Here today and gone tomorrow,
never missed until too late,
A treasure then for some to borrow,
To keep themselves from pearly gates.

All things old and all things new,
Will have today to call their own,
But soon shall fade in rustic view,
With ticks and tocks to call them home.

Greeting them with gentle rest,
The guiding hand that wrote their tale,
Saying then to what is left,
"Your time is up, was it spent well?"

"O angels please,
I plead to thee,
Show some mercy,
In plans for me.

In trying times,
I've tried my best,
To pray to you,
For any rest.

A loving heart,
A gentle soul,
A sign to point,
Which way to go.

A light to guide,
A hand to hold,
A source of warmth,
In bitter cold.

A place to hide,
A shelter free,
From any sense,
Of tragedy.

But still you watch,
And still we wait,
For any shred,
Of dawn to break."

So it goes,
The saying old,
The sun shall come,
To banish cold.

The clouds will flee,
And joy will spread,
To all of those,
With hope still left.

"To all of you,
The lucky few,
To make it through,
The dreadful nights.

Enjoy the view,
You've made it here,
Breathe it in,
With small delight.

The bodies stiff,
Shall mark your trial,
And memories then,
Shall sing and dance.

To remind the cost,
Of true denial,
Count the lost,
The numbers grand.

The price of life,
A heavy sum,
Will weigh enough,
To break the one.

Who dared to dream,
Of bigger things,
Who played at god,
And grew his wings.

Who soared so high,
He met the sun,
And tumbled then,
The foolish one."

He angered them,
The ones that saw,
Those who made,
Eternal law.

And swiftly then,
Did they enact,
A greatly awful,
Ancient pact.

The sun would fade,
Away from view,
To signal then,
The end anew.

And all would freeze,
And all would starve,
Except for those,
Of faithful heart.

"A simple thing,
To ask of them,
Remain our creatures,
Not our kin."

Gods are made of men,
And flimsy things are they,
Just ask Zeus, the king of them,
Or Apollo of the golden ray.

Ask Poseidon, wave ruler for the faithful,
Or Hades, the distant kin of flame,
They’ll tell you then that men are hateful,
And put their faith to shame.

For Gods of men are powerful things,
Ruling rightly so,
Yet live and die in songs we sing,
As our whims will ebb and flow.

Yet just as strong and remembered still,
As those that we now know,
It was not so long since for them we killed,
Yet now they do bow low.

Why is it then that this king won,
And took with him the right,
To dictate men and send a son,
To represent the light?

Passing crown down through the years,
From one king to the next,
Appeasing men through faith and fear,
Until they’re rightly vexed.

To the phantom girl I admire,
Who’s heart is center to desire,
The love, the one, for whom I do rise,
I surely do love your what-colored eyes.

The way they sparkle in the setting sun,
Or longingly hold the moon as the one,
Too look up to, adhere to, adore,
I love them like always, maybe, for sure.

Just as I love you for all that you are,
A “what if” kind of joy, a gift to my heart,
For all your perfections and wants that I see,
I’ll always love you, forever, maybe.

To talk of soul,
Yet be cut off,
By woes of love,
Upon the rocks,
Dashed and diced,
In passion’s prime,
Is nothing more,
Than a mark of time.

The weary one,
Who counts his blessings,
By races run,
With tired methods,
Prays for rest,
Upon the wings,
Of the angel,
In fading ink.

Yet he knows now,
He is alone,
And for his troubles,
He shall atone,
As he loved her,
As soulmates do,
But wished an end,
Both well and true.

That was when,
His soul would close,
To any lovely,
Soft repose,
And he would fall,
To love itself,
And call “I’m sorry,”
As he fell.

If death should come for me, I'll ask to dance in trade. For my soul is untouchable, and this I shall declare as every brave hearted fool before me has done. We will twist and tango until death knows what it means to breathe life into old bones again, and mine shall wither away. there we shall stand, on reversed ends, and death shall beg to stay. But the reapers call is endless, and must be fulfilled. So without second thought, and a grin ear to ear, I shall carry out the reaping, which the fates seemed to will. And thus, death shall know loss, he never did before.

Sometimes it’s the worst thing in the world,
The subtle death by silence.
To see you and another drift by years apart,
Or months or days,
When you live for the moments all too brief,
Where hello never means as much as goodbye.
Sometimes it makes me cry,
I shed a tear or two, and just a few more,
For the friends washed up on other shores.
I trace their names in the sand,
Never wanting to let them go.
I’m a sentimental fool,
Who lets his feelings show way too late.
But if I could I’d say it with all the feeling in the world,
Please don’t go...

Take a look at my history and it’s easy to see why I’m afraid of just being a bottle of pills sat next to a diary on standby, in case talking isn’t enough this time.
It all starts with the words “Don’t tell anyone else...”

Well I’ve kept up my end of the bargain. I’ve kept your secrets for you, hell I even took them with me when you were gone, and I’ll take them to my grave for you. But don’t tell me you’ll hate me, or that you’ll leave or walk away, don’t tell anyone else, but you will anyway.

Friends come and go, but please take the things you own when you leave.

Friends! Drunken-men! Lend me your beers!
Let not the woes of day to day,
Drive all hope of toast away,
And raise to me,
Your younger kin,
Your glass of beer or shot or toniced gin,
And I will count you as a friend in this, the greatest of places!

On life,
On death,
On me,
Ennui.

To move from dream to dream,
To think and recollect,
To drift within the stream,
Of life and then to jest.

How everything is clear,
How everything is grand,
How the world is sincere,
That never still it stands.

To curse the state of time,
And watch it slip away,
Perceived by the mind,
Ennui, just the same.

On we to our dreams,
Of platinum-plated wants,
Wether small or larger things,
Ennui, to the lot.

Upon shipwreck-shores I lay my heart for all to see. And with it too in counterpart shall lay the essence of my humanity.

A soul once proud now withered in full view of indecency, torn and rung out by all that love has revealed itself to be.

This gilded facade measured so carefully as to keep intact only upon a surface of beauty less than skin-deep has made its mark.

And so I tip my hat to exception, hung up on the rack of broken dreams with expectation and reality for company bittersweet.

Expectation is the enemy of perfection,
A natural expression of idle curiosity.
And I have felt that need **** me years ago,
For I am a poet, as a poet I am known.

And this carries with it a certain expectation,
Which over the years has slowly grown,
That my writing should progress into perfection,
And so, is no longer my own.

And there, a poet slowly dies. Crushed under the weight of their own self-criticism. The world has robbed them of a free-moving pen, by way of expectation.

The death of such a spirit, is both subtle and moving. A nexus for emotion sapped and stomped out to the beat of life, until there is nothing left but embers, and the words which can be gleaned from a heart weighed down by expectation.

Honestly I can't hold my own with drugs, I don't like that out-of-body rush, my mind's already expanded too much.

Sometimes it's like a hamster on a little wheel, I have to keep it running smoothly or I start to feel a little unhinged.

Now that I think about it, that's probably why the family hobby is binge-drinking, getting high by getting numb enough to stop thinking.

I try my best to keep it all together, but honestly most days seem better after they're gone, because I've already weathered the storm.

I have a question for you, is it weird that I'm only happy at the start of a new day? When that first hour awake shows it's pretty face, I feel amazing.

Until I watch it fade away and in it's place I see familiar faces telling me "Everything's the same and nothing ever changes."

My dad told me once in a drunken state of prophecy, "Son, me and you are variables, we can be the change the world needs."

I rebutted instantly, "If that's true, how come you've been drinking every night since you were 17? How come you've been working your whole life away inside refineries? How come you'll be doing the same thing when you hit the age of 63?"

After that he just stared at me, like his whole world was broken, like I took a notion he'd been holding onto for 20 long years and shattered it.

There I saw a man bruised, battered and beaten, and when I saw the look in his eyes that night I had a moment of clarity.

It came to me in the form of a quote by Sir Fredrick Neichze, "And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

And in that moment I had to laugh because I realized my whole life could be a divine comedy, my dad was trying to help me escape, but all I could think about was our shared love of philosophy.

And as if on cue, he said the quote right back to me, and then I felt bad for laughing at a tragedy.

I am afraid to say I love you,
Even though I do,
From little things,
To diamond rings,
I’ll do or buy anything,
To prove that it is true.

But the reason that I’m scared,
Is a tricky little snare,
You love me,
Eternally, for now,
Until I mess up somehow,
And cause you quite a scare.

Then I could be better,
And in will come the weather,
From rain and doubt,
To lover’s drought,
Here come the bouts,
The sudden want to sever.

First Place:

In loving grace I remember still,
Her words like pin-***** tender thrills,
Sent shivers up my spine,
To race my heart in rising time.

A pounding beat and nervous air,
To match there eager step,
And cautious charm,
That was love as I saw then,
A distant hope,
With reaching arm.

I look upon those tender days,
With eyes of old and fading grace,
Such hope for one who was so young,
So much of life still yet to run.
Yet odds be ****** for odds they were,
And with them stood a chance for first.

And so I charged into the race,
leaving some I knew in saddened state,
For what chance had they,
Who could not beat,
The odds laid bare for all to see.

The long-shot man had beat them so,
With blinders on and endless hope.
Yet race's end would see him fall,
With those who entered,
One and all.

For she it seemed,
Cared not for one who ran the race,
And so there lay in broken state,
With memories kept in bitter taste,
A mound of broken hearts and graves.

The light in my life ended the night you tried to get personal with a bullet. That night you called me up, and me and your demons had a chat.

We became friends and I invited them in with a welcome mat so openly that they never left. They agreed to leave you alone as long as I took partial custody, and I accepted eagerly, for you.

Now some years have passed. You're all grown up and apart in a relationship built to last, and I'm stuck here in the nightmare aftermath of heavy stone arms, shaking hands, and panicked breathing every other weekend.

That's what "I love you" means to me. The first time I gave of myself eagerly to get partial custody of someone else's demons.

To whom it may concern, my friends and family who will no doubt wish to say goodbye, say it now, and I will hear you.

Say it now loud enough for me to hear and know how much I meant, say it now so we can smile in this moment together.

Say it now like you’ve always said it since forever and realize forever isn’t that long. Forever was a minute at 8, a block away at 10, and a mile apart at 12.

Forever away can be the distance it takes for a friend to realize they miss you, or it can be gone in a moment with one phone call.

Forever is all the time it takes to get from here to there until you blink. So if you ever find yourself thinking forever away is too far, take a look at where you are, remember how it took forever to get here?

Forever is always near so don’t you ever forget about the memories we made together, those are yours, forever.

I’ve had enough of love,
The sitting around wondering what you’re thinking of,  trying to act like I don’t care when the truth is I just wanna be there next to you, I swear it’s true. from now on it’s just me and you so let’s put it all to a rest and give love our best guess at a first date, ‘cause talking to you is a gift I just can’t take, but when I do I feel like I need to wake up from a dream. I can’t even bring myself to think that maybe just for a second this is real, the way you make me feel got me second guessing at the best thing on earth, you make all the trouble worth it. I think calling it love is cheesy but in other words you’re perfect.

For you I would forget,
Like I did so long ago,
I’d cast my love of poems away,
The one thing that I own.

For you I would give up,
This gateway to the soul,
If it means that I’d forget,
Emotion’s heavy toll.

I’d let it all just melt away,
Like I did the first time through,
I’d do anything to replace your name,
With the face of someone new.

If time is truth then let it be,
Absolute by fates decree,
For time moves on and here we wait,
For time to lose it’s moving state.

And in our grace we do declare,
Time’s swift movement is unfair!
And so we hate and twist and turn,
Always longing for time we’ve burned.

But in our wait we forget our ways,
Of moving on to better days,
And so we lose what we hold dear,
Memories made, most sincere.

And by the time we see our flaw,
Time has passed us up in awe,
Of grace, of beauty, of truth absolute,
Time cares not for wanting youth.

If nothing else, I hope that you can understand.

Be caring, be kind, do not reprimand those daring enough to unwind and tell you of the sorrows they face, because by tomorrow you could be in their place.

Wanting and wishing for those around you to start hearing and listening to what pains you've gone through.

To lend their ears to your words as if everything you've said is like nothing they've heard.

As though you hold the key to the universe behind eyes of despair, and all you need to reach it, is for one person to care enough to hear you.

So that all those near you, may  know peace in getting you through your space of sorrow, and by tomorrow, you'll be there to listen in thier place again so they may call you friend.

Do what you want to do not out of obligation, but to experience something new. When did life get so old, when did the bucket list become the goal? It's just another checklist meant to make us persist for one more day, let's end it. At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, pardon my Latin but why wait until tomorrow when today is yours so seize it.

On this quiet day she laments. For the friends she has lost, for the hunger she now feels, for all that once made her human, it is now gone. She sits quietly staring into the pond, hoping beyond hope her own reflection would see fit to deem her an intruder and work it’s damnable curse upon her. Yet no matter how hard she tries, she still knows the freedom of movement.

3 years. It has been 3 years to the day the gods have cursed her. 3 years alone in the garden of stone, so aptly named by the few adventurers who have managed to come in and out of this place with their wonderful zeal still intact. At first she tried to converse with them, that was a mistake. Her words were drowned out by the horrible cacophony of hissing “things” that sum up everything she hates about this life, and the adventurers, being all too eager to swing a blade or mutter some incantation they picked up from who knows where, well, they just called her a monster.

Honestly, they weren’t wrong, though it was never her choice to be this way. She laughs for a moment. “No one ever chooses to be who they are.” She says to herself. But she knew what she meant, it wasn’t her fault she became the thing she is now. It was the Gods. Zeus in his **** avarice, paired with Hera’s own petty jealousy make for quite a nasty combination. How was she supposed to know it was Zeus himself tempting her? She couldn’t, there was no way. Knowing that, the punishment seemed entirely unreasonable.

Thinking that, she laughed again.
“The gods deal in the unreasonable. They made all this from nothing.”
She waited there for a moment, then set out to attend to her garden. She spends the first few hours of the day gathering white lilies and roses, there always seem to be an abundance for some reason. Then she slowly goes around to each statue in the garden, and lays them at their feet, letting out a few tears for each as she does so. “It isn’t fair that you suffered for their jealousy.” She whispers underneath her breath.

I live for expression,
A common cause of depression,
Not saying I have it,
That would be tragic.

But I’ve looked at my father,
And bothered to ask it,
I said, “Do you think we’re depressed?”
He said, “No, we just feel for the casket.”

From that day on,
I’ve stumbled along,
Living life like a dream,
Where yesterday’s clear and tomorrow is gone.

He said to me “Son,
We are the givers,
And we have to be strong,
We feel for the pain and ease it along.”

“We open ourselves to the hurt and the worst,
Coating our shells with words in a verse,
Taking time then to hear, understand?
Being sincere is our role in the plan.”

But I look at him then,
And I think, and I see,
That out from his pen,
He writes so tragically.

And I wonder now often enough,
If the answer he gave was real or a bluff,
If giving’s our role then let it be said,
We carry the toll of depression expressed.

Such twisted wings on perfect frame,
A poisoned thing with pretty name,
Hallowed be her every step,
From when we met to when she left.

And oh how I am such a fool,
To fondly think of one so cruel,
Yet that is me, then and now,
A giving tree with core cut down.

And I cannot blame a tired soul,
For seeking warmth in world’s cold,
So when she gave to me her hand,
I gave to her a loving chance.

And in those days I wore a smile,
There was no maze, no test or trial,
To tell me then what wisdom knew,
That happy things are rarely true.

And soon I found she left to me,
Such twisting, gnawing, growing seeds,
Of pain and doubt in lasting glimpse,
Her name carved out in reverence.

For she confessed to me these thoughts,
A sense of growing, twisting, gnawing loss,
And I like donors linked and paired,
Gave my heart to see her spared.

But fool was I to do this deed,
As I fear this tall giving tree,
Has wilted, worn, and rotted through,
Left to mourn with little use.

So reaching then up towards the sun,
Sensing thoughts of love and fun,
I call anew another name,
To sew the seeds all the same.

Break in case of emergency,
Emotional uncertainty,
Anxiety,
A struggle with sobriety,
A squabble with the family,
Or something no one else can see,
When you need a friend for listening,
Who else to them,
But quiet me?

To the hope that I have lost,
Of spilling here, a single drop,
Of worthy ink upon this page,
Why have you fled,
To better days?

In times of love you moved so freely,
Writing every word so keenly,
succinctly, yes!
Truly I, was blessed by love,
And ever since, the wounded dove.

Two years apart had rusted wit,
And aching heart had dulled my pen,
To a point,
Of wounded pride,
A vestige of such happy times.

Yet still I cling to those old ways,
My ill-begotten glory days,
Of love, hope, and fluid pen,
All forgotten,
By the  end.

It seems love has dulled my rapier sharp wit down to a pen,
And to that end I am grateful,
God bless the angel who made me the man I’ve become.
A walking set of memories with remedies for heartache,
I put my hope in charity cases,
But make no mistake,
My days of being one are done.

God bless the humble heart that fumbled it’s way,
Into the lead part of my yesterday,
God bless the woman I loved,
Who showed me that trying to be enough,
Is sometimes far too much,
God bless her for what she was,
God bless her for who she is.

A friend in need,
A spirit freed,
A lover much,
But just enough,
Never such.

No more sway in the angel's spell,
To hold my heart and keep unwell,
All thoughts of me, oh happy day,
The one I loved has flown away.

Goodbye my love and gentle muse,
I was blind to your misuse,
No more binding words to heel,
All happy thoughts of how to feel.

Ironic then that you despised,
My wounded heart and weakened pride,
As it would seem you were the cause,
For all my often mentioned flaws.

My nervousness was linked to you,
And often times my sadness too,
Would dance in pair, a tragic waltz,
To amplify my many faults.

And then would come the sly remarks,
To keep me guessing at your heart,
And all the while you'd wonder why,
My confidence just seemed to die.

But for all my faults and flaws alike,
There is one truth I can't deny,
My life was better when you weren't here,
So goodbye my love, most sincere.

All the words on all the parchment,
All the love that this heart gives,
Was never enough for the one I love,
The girl I’m dreaming of never once cared for me,
And honestly I can’t blame her,
So I write this poem with a disclaimer,
I care too much for love.

From the day I met her I’ve been awe struck,
At the beauty, the laugh, the smile and the craft,
From arts to inks to prayers,
I’ve never seen a love so fair.
And I say this now in memory,
For the one I never told,
I’m sorry.

With every fiber of my being as my tears swell on the page,
I’m so sorry I didn’t say that I loved you,
At the time I didn’t know how much you meant,
So I let the moment slip away, but I want you to know,
Not a day goes by that I don’t try for yesterday.

When I was young my father said,
Be weary son of your awful head,
Filled with thoughts both old and wise,
And soft spots there for tragic times.

I looked at him and laughed away,
All worries then of impending days,
So joyous then was I the fool,
Who held fast to the golden rule.

Treat others fair so they in kind,
Would carry on with you in mind,
But left unsaid was another half,
Walk along the quiet path.

The one not filled with tired hearts,
Waiting for a gentle spark,
Of love, of joy, of precious things,
For they all hide a broken wing.

They’ll look to you to patch them up,
Longing for a gentle touch,
To grab ahold and leech away,
And leave to you a tired state.

Pray for sincerity,
Yet beg me to stop,
It’s everything you say you need,
Not worth a thought.

But pardon me for caring,
I guess I’ll step away,
Wish you luck in love’s paring,
“But wait,” you said, “Stay.”

But I’ve got no gift for patience,
See not anymore,
Because I’ve played the game of waiting,
Too much before.

And all the sudden that’s my fault,
Why don’t I love you?
That’s just an insult,
I did and you knew.

So what happened to then?
All the time you had,
You called me a friend,
And I accepted that.

But now you’re unhappy,
Because I treat you like one,
You didn’t care about me,
When I made you the sun.

So how are you?
Dear friend of mine,
Let’s see this through,
And silently say goodbye.

Because the chance has come and gone,
I hate to say it,
But romance can only wait so long,
So goodb-.

Sometimes I lay awake, trying to remember what I forgot. Like all the times we never fought, because I never thought of you as anything less than beautiful.

It never crossed my mind that I might forget to be kind the next time around when I got the chance to say, "Good morning, I love you."

Because it's true that what I felt for you was nothing short of amazing. Your breathtaking smile giving life to my heart, kept me waiting with bated breath to see it once more.

And every day I made sure to give you my best guess at the word "love." Like it was something to be proud of, I gave you my heart.

In the hopes that I could start each and every day the same way I always did, with "Good morning, I love you." But life, isn't always a fairy tale..

And sometimes, it was easy to sell me on the idea that our love was never worth it.

Because on the days we fought, and our best guess wasn't perfect, I somehow forgot all the times I remembered to say "Good morning, I love you."

Our voices raised, our tempers flared, we compared each other to tidal waves, ready to crush all hope we had of love.

And soon we found that in our rage, that beautiful phrase wasn't enough to hold a gaze of love any longer.

So now sometimes, I lay awake, trying to remember what I forgot, like all the times we never fought, and I got the chance to say, "Good morning, I love you."

A waking dream to reflect your memory,
All that I see of my reality,
Your name to another face,
My heart to another place.

In hopes and fantasy I make a home,
To reside in a space I’ve rarely known,
Of love and warmth,
Where smiles roam.

For you I write,
Words from a knife,
Left gently so,
Your somber touch,
I’d always know.

Words from a well,
Left to compel,
What’s left unsaid,
From a dreamer’s head.

And so I sit,
To reminisce,
Forever trapped,
As my penance.

For loving you,
My gentle muse,
Grasping names,
Which fade from view.

They twist and turn,
And laugh away,
These shadows here,
Of yesterday.

To blind me then,
Of simple truths,
I’m chasing names,
I hardly knew.

It seems that time,
Has left a stain,
A passing want,
For yesterday.