To be a musician is to be a creature of conceit
To believe that what one creates is worth hearing
And that the words and names given to creations mean
anything
at
all
to
anyone
at
all
besides yourself
and a true musician
will
not
care

Don't ask me to stay
Ask to come along
I am too in love with the world to let it go
But I love you enough to share it
and my suitcases
and the food on my plate
and my room for the night
Why don't you ask to come along?

A Super Nova in my chest, a love for life that will **** me in the end just to set itself free from flesh
Aren't you lovely when you smile, it breaks invisible bones that will ache for days
The keys of a piano have become my fingers
I wish I didn't fancy myself such a tragic figure.

I do not live for you
to please and entertain you
I do not live to harm you either
but do not confuse compassion for
compliance.

A bruised sky turning black and revealing stars
like a burlesque dancer would her garter
Is above me.
The wind whispers, oh how I love it
the sweet sorrow of knowing that this feeling will not last
even an hour
the darkness and
the cold will drive me in
but I know this will come again
and you
are
invited.

I hate to write a song
but I love to have written one
and have my fingers ache with the wonderful fear
that it might be good

I will confess my love before this bruise of a world
and my hands will not shake because
I am not afraid to feel
I have felt the wind rush past my face
and I have heard musicians playing while the lights scream
I am not afraid to feel

Time is
dark blue and star pricked
bruised with purple light
cascading with a roaring sound no one hears because
it is not there
and a million long forgotten cuckoo clocks that have since turned into a black and white movie playing on constant repeat.

A secret vale she lived in
one they could not see
the moon was a lady
and she was the moon
though she didn't want to be
it hurt to live and never bleed

they get a sick type of satisfaction
another ding
another score
another 3 word message that conveys nothing
a notification
some bit of horrible, tantalizing news
out of some plastic strangers "mouth"
and I do not understand

I write myself raw
and use blood as ink
my life becomes frantic paper
and my body a hopeless vessel
that I am burning through
my words are whispers of honest
hopeless shadows of a soul
just as a bone is hopeless shadow of a limb

Like ink on paper
you have made your mark on me
and it is beautiful

There were a million things that could be said of him
and the most important was "he loved her."

I am forever amazed at how the world breathes with its oceans and its forests
and how you love with chocolate eyes
that have hurt themselves more times than count
and that harbor such love and dying guilt
and a secret laugh that I am allowed to see, and touch, and hold in my hand and in my heart.

Do you think we could lay beneath the stars in a sort of wondrous terror?
Terror at the thought of such exposure. The stars that we are made of could see us,
Pale in the moonlight.
Moonlight suits us.
Your dark eyes would become caverns, your dark hair would tangle like so many brambles.
And I would be there. Reflected in your eyes. You always were the sun, and I the moon. A sacrifice and the result. An unconditional love.

I am so deliriously in love with you
my heart races at your image
and more at your touch
and I know
I will wait a million lifetimes
for you
and I am comforted by thought that you are doing the same
I love
and I am
And you are here
and that is
Wonderful

It is
a claw
attatched to a string
tied to my foot
and when I try to move away from it
it scratches me all the more.

It is
a pool
of clear water
with black rocks on the bottom
the more I try to swim up
the closer I get to drowning.

It is
a hurt bird
and when you try to help it
it breaks its other wing
leaving you the criminal.

I love
is that not
enough
I am
happy
is that not
enough
I am
is that
enough
yet


I live
with a
wonderful
fever that
you don't
know
and that
is
enough

I saw a lovely creature
who created life
in the form of felt and fleece
and ping pong *****
and made it speak kindness
and friendship
until he died
and left the world a bit better

There is so much that can happen
when your eyes are asleep
and the moon is kissing the earth
with her silver tendrils.

There is a world I own
and I share it
with my friends
the birds and of course
Sam.

We name it and we live there
at night and when it's warm
I'd like to say it is endless
but my world is hopelessly finite
outside of my forested mind.

I make up for it by filling it
with stories and songs and cairns
built for things that never die
dreams and souls and love

I walk the edges
and mourn that the borders beyond are not mine
but I have ten acres more than most
and it is my own world

Is it death you ask for? Or is it peace?
They don't have to be the same thing, sometimes they aren't.
Is it success you ask for? Or is it happiness?
Happiness is not always success, but success is always happiness.
I promise.

Is it existence you ask for? Or is it life?
You can have a whole world to yourself, if you remember to ask yourself for it.
Is it admiration you ask for? Or is it love?
You can share a world that you made yourself, if you love enough to reveal it.

I heard a boy talking today
about a poetry contest.
He wouldn't enter
because he thought
they only wanted poetry on boring things
like suns, and trees, and stuff.
And he doesn't write that sort of poetry.
I felt bad for him, not knowing what poetry can be
until he said he wanted to enter for the first prize.
He can keep his false beliefs.

Come one! Come all!
See those who I have deemed freaks.
They are Poets, and Artists, and Writers.
Feast your eyes on those who refuse to take standardized tests!
Be amazed by those who can still us there fingers to do something other than text!
They would starve without me, your ringmaster.
They would drive themselves mad in your world.

I had a dream
that I was dead
and it hurt to move
and I moved so slowly.
The light was yellow-green
and so was my skin.
My brother was dead
than I was. He couldn't move.
Not even slowly.
My house was stripped
of its carpet and it's furniture.
My parents were there. They were dead.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
I wore white and there was blood on me.
I carried white wreaths and set them
on the hard floor.
I was hungry.
But my mouth would not move
and stomach could hold nothing.
I kneeled.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
The curtains were white
the windows were open.
I could not hear. I was numb in my head.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
I had to get up and go down the stairs.
My eyes were dead.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.

It's hard to write a poem
and read it to someone who can not read
words for what they are not
and then try to explain it to them
in words that are what they are.
It comes across as only ink smatterings on perfect paper and a series of vowels and consonants on perfect silence.

i am not a mathmatician
so don't pretend that i am
don't make me write down endless strings of numbers that
i don't understand

do not choke me with square roots of evil
or drown me in formulas
while telling me reading music
is not a real skill
as i've noticed you can't do it
nor can the lady across the hall
you've gotten through life alright
but i haven't seen you smile once.

Math worked out for you i see.
And i grin because i can read music.

If Light had a face it would be homely
a great, cracked, bulbous, wrinkled thing
not smooth like fair Darkness
and not half as cold

If Light had a hand it wouldn't be slender
Light would not posess piano hands
Darkness is the one with hands of silver
stretched and ready to play


If Light had a past it would be harrowed
for only goodness can come from such a trial
and if Darkness was an age it would be ancient
and Light would be seven times twice as old