He tried to paint  the world with words
coated hue-
misery,  sweet and bitter.
Novels of leaves  tumbling from
old oaks and Christmas trees.
Canvas of dead songs written of poets from
East to West bays

His hands were wrapped with metaphors
of sun and moon
I could no longer see the lingering
truth behind all the ironies

When can I sit his side without being told naive
To love without building an old story
His world, his eyes, his words
how do you bond such gold?

It ***** to be a realist. To know that the world can be terrible and at the same time be filled with the possibilities of the wonderful. And then there's you, the poor realist, who somehow has all this truth and hope and idea of everything black and white, good or bad. So you build up this fear inside you, this pain that everything can go either ways of opposing extremes and there's nothing you can do about it except go on  and live with both sides.

Her tune craves for him to sing
with her
not at her.

When he holds her in his hands
she comes alive. His love is
made known in the motions he makes.

Actions speak louder than words.
How beautiful it was that strumming
came easier than speaking.

She wants to be learned but not many
people have time for her complex
tendencies.

And she wants to be heard but
they have all forgotten how to
listen with their eyes.

I reached out and touched
her vibrations as he played.
I cried because I understand.

i limit my friends to a circle of nine
         but in front of everybody else
         i count to ten