I thought I was lonely,
simply because I live alone
But lately I've noticed that
the loneliness of watching a
documentary I've seen
six times in six months,
surrounded by nothing but
the eerie darkness of 2 AM
in a one bedroom apartment
is nothing compared to the
loneliness of smoking a cigarette
at 4 in the afternoon with you,
counting tragedies on bruises &
scars in the spare room of your
best friend's new place

She slips her small hand into mine and
together we walk through the lengthening
shadows,
where we and time become one.

The echo of footsteps, now gone,
only the footprints go on.

The carpet wherein lies eternity is the weaving
together of hearts.

This I see,
and as I drown in the mass
of humanity
her hand reaches out to me.

In the night where the stars burst
so brilliantly, where
the stabbing daggers at lightspeed
are blinding me,
the warmth of her body reaches
out to me and
she shows me the violence
of her galaxy.

i cant call this love
i know its... sort of complicated.
i can tell that it is for you.
one second you say im young
then the next you call me beautiful?
maybe i just take things in the wrong context.
but those blue eyes of yours really get me
and that silly smile you have on your face... god...
i just... i dont know. id never trespass your comfort zone
but i just keep thinking of the embraces we shared
and that kiss on the top of my head
i want you to remember me and love me
and maybe just turning that kiss from the top of my head
to down to my lips, and to love every second of it.
just once, please, one day let me lean in and
taste a real mans lips.

He comes in around the same time
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
eating alone save for the newspapers
constantly clutched beneath his arm
his spectacles worn to ice
his windbreaker and khakis
every time ordering the same
salad, soup, and pasta dish
He doesn’t talk much
and I like that
his words are rare occurrences
of honest observation
a reflection of the aged, sad look
which he wears on his face
every Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday
just before the dinner rush
I never see him arrive or leave
simply he appears
a ghost from an old photograph
walking among the swirling mess
of flesh, blood, and heartbeats
I bet he drives an Oldsmobile
or maybe a buick
stick shift with faded leather interior
I bet he had a wife once who loved him
and children who weren’t too grown up
to give him a call every now and then
just to check in
I think about this man
under the closing-time moon
as I pull myself into my car
and leave
away with my own life
my own story
and I aim not to forget him

You are on the wrong side of thirty
You the white cliff of Dover
the passing of days the waves of the ocean
chipping away at you
wearing you down
You are on the wrong side of thirty
and maybe you’re starting to notice
your fleeing hairline
the creaking which starts in your ankles
and connects your milestones
to knees and back and neck
maybe you don’t see the point of getting out of bed today
or tomorrow
maybe your wife has started to let herself go
after the kid came
love handles and cellulite thighs
sagging **** and a birds nest atop her wrinkled face
You resent the kid
because for him
the world is so open
full of choices made on his fickle whim
while you wither away
giving every part of yourself
so one day he can be on the wrong side of thirty
and you can rest easily
on the wrong side of a grave
a wry smile stretching the skin of your corpse
*It’s your turn now you ungrateful *******

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay!
To the meadows trip away.
’Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
  Not a soul at home may stay:
    For the shepherds must go
    With lance and bow
  To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
  Not a soul at home may stay:
    For the shepherds must go
    With lance and bow
  To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

How can I move with a paralyzed heart?
Alone, yet surrounded, I want to depart
From this painful world and my sickening sin
An otter with no tail, a fish with no fin

Men what are we doing, with our daily lives?
Work, triviality, I struggle to survive
Shallow relationship, isolational fervor
No ability of account, or unashamed vulner

What is the purpose of our daily lives?
Sharing our lives with our work?  We can thrive
Doing that will complete the task
And leave us fulfilled, but it will not last

Does what we do care?  Can it embrace and rebuke?
Encourage us to Jesus?  When we just don't want to?
Can we be vulnerable with it, and it with us in return?
Or will it light a match, and watch our world burn?

It's either God and people, or what you do and don't do.
Only one can carry you through.
One points to Jesus, the other to you,
Our object of faith or a rotting old shoe

I have no one daily, in my life
To encourage me, love me, lead me to Christ
And so alone down this path, lonely and straight,
Death accompanies, and ahead, death waits

i haven't believed in
anyone ever
like i believe in
you.