the way an old woman cleans a grave
with respect
and silent love
with no expectation of love in return
but for the sake of memory
and for the sake of love itself
tinged with a bit of sadness

I want to stay up all night
we'll watch the radio
and hear the things that never see the light

He wrote with his eyes
on pages of hearts
and the stories he told
would never stop

She wanted to know
why she wanted to go
to a grand somewhere else with him

She played with universes
and they always smiled back
and I think she loved
with what was more than love
but she was seldom loved back

Take back the walls crumbled
and rebuild them
not with Bricks and Mortal
but with Dreams and Fire
for who then would dare tear the down?

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

There is only one difference between the first and the last
and it is is the amount of hope

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 read Poe while playing ELO
I'm different, I might grow
5'1 and 22
I don't know what I can do
Leave me here
And let me sigh
whisper love
and I might die
I've read books in less than a day
But what about I couldn't say
Some leave marks
Red and raw
while others fade into oblivion
without so much as a word on my lips
or a simple recollection

You'd think
that perhaps
people would look
older
or talk
older
eventually
but they don't
and it is very
disappointing
to think that after all of this
time
people still believe
they are just
people
to me

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

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.

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

These place, these places that cut us with their ice and the sun
their wind and the rain
their silence and their sound
will fall one day like a thunderhead that has left its heart somewhere else
The diamonds we once mined for on the days when yesterdays were dying and todays were not yet born, you know what it is like to have lived a thousand lives and be embarrassed by nine hundred of them and fear they might resurface for how can one be and then not, how can one sleep and not wake, for death while living is so hard to understand.
These places, these places, how I have loved them for their pain, for if it hurts then I must have cared, and if I cared I must have loved.

I love you in your silence
you wear so often
but never so completely that
I cannot hear your whispers
as air and sleep and dreams
intermingle
where is it that you go?

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

Loud and Vain
Silence and Pain
burn it out or up
we're all here
pretending to be winning
imagining its for us the world is spinning
maybe it is today

I stood there
in the haven of damp
while the rest of the world sat
soaking wet
dripping wet
and frozen
There is no sun
but its better than bleeding

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.

Out of touch
disconnected
a hundred applications
all rejected
what have we learned during out time made of stone?
other than how to not live alone?
You've only ever loved yourself reflected
Haven't you, Mr. Jones?

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

Her heart burns at her center
Torn into two or eight or eleven
And in it lives a green world
That was not given the means to live
And instead kills her pleasantly

Walk in a circle to find yourself
pace to find the thoughts in your head
as long as you are moving
it's better than being dead

I know these eyes,
see how they reflect me differently,
I know these hands,
they have held the broken pieces together,
even when the pierced your own skin,
on accident always
and you never have regretted it,
because I know this heart.

How many never stand up
for fear of being laid low?
how many people count stars and
forget to ever ask
what did counting ever do?
How many star on the edges in ball gowns and masks
thinking "better to be uncomfortable
than to be let down"
so they stay where they've been
and become who they already were
for the sake of being
something they've always known

They don't have to make sense
these words you say
just so long as you say them
send them off
and send them out
whisper
shout
scream as if you are dying
go beyond the definitions
so long as the feelings there

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

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