I'm  a believer in late night conversations.
I'm a believer in starry eyed, open smiles,
ink stained fingertips.
I'm a believer in hour upon hours,
lying in safe arms
disregarding the world and it's perpetually
complicated
social structures.
I'm a believer in butterfly kisses,and eskimo kisses,
and any other kisses you can muster.
I'm a believer in spontaneous proclamations of love,
sweet slow touches, reassuring words.
I'm a believer in eloquent anger,
words turned to a fencer's foil,
dancing in careful time with a discussion bordering heat.

My hands are always cold
with no one left to hold them.
My scars, a little too visible.
My memory, a little too lonesome.
Sitting under a bridge thinking,
about the trainspotting
pipe smokers.
Letting my mind carry me off
tryin' to catch some of that smolder
ed green
that burns in my bronchioles.
That grows to trees in my mind.
Can anyone save us, who can see
in a world that's gone blind?

I wander through lives,
wild thing in a domesticated age,
baring my soul to those who dare see.
I send my thoughts whisper-thin
like night breezes touching you
in your subconscious wonderlands...
and await your unplanned replies.
I change rapidly
unashamedly.
Trying, nonetheless
to do what I'm told,
file my thoughts away like scars
no one wants to see.
Until you resurrect me:
pacing, snarling, wildthing
sleeping in my deepest cells.
You give me my reply in sweeping words,
blessed unholy silence.
A kiss, love, to end the world.

My heart is sleeping,
but my body's awake.
My mind's busy keeping
your advances away.
My brain fingers your shadows.
My tongue catches your eyes.
You like how I tell you no
like I can see through your guise,
but in spite of my resistance
it's all a big game.
You'll chase me. You'll catch me.
I'll scream out your name.
We'll do our dance,
sing our song.
You'll realize I'm empty,
and then you'll be gone.
And I'll burn out your image.
Write your name in my sin.
You'll move on, forget I happened.
I'll laugh, and cave in.

What would you do
if I painted the sky with stars, and
coaxed the moon to stay,
just to look at it's reflection in your eyes.
If I gathered up all your broken pieces,
and spent hours patching
the hairline fractures in your mind.
If I ignored the splinters,
Because there's always collateral damage.
And if I whispered lullabies while you slept,
just to keep your demon away.
What would you do?
If I kissed your eyes when your world
got ugly.
If I sang to you, just to give you something
beautiful to hear?
If I promised on your very skin
the love my lips can't explain?
If I articulated in fingertips, and sighs.
Would you translate my love,
or just the echoes of your hearts burnt corridors.

I only told you once.
How unhealthy my love was,
my obsession,
hurt me more than you anyway.
I wrapped my life
around you.
I wrapped my thoughts
around your vague desires
your cruel demands.
I remember your head on my lap
your tears on my thighs.
I remember you laughter,
your promises.
I remember
exactly
how hard I tried
to fight your demons.
I remember days, weeks, months, years
wasted on your sick delusions.
I was so lost.
You saved me,
Jim Jones to my misguided youth.

Better the abuse you know, than the strangers you don't.

Do I move you?
Do I beat your heart's percussion in my All-Star's allegro rhythm?
Do I make you wonder
while you lie alone, thinking of my fingers
on your skin,
in your hair,
discovering your beautiful
secret places?
Do I touch you?
Do  I linger in your mind like last nights whiskey?
Do I hold you
enraptured
in the sway of my hips?
the tilt of my lips?
Do I make you breathe
deepsighs
when I've been gone too long?
Do I remind you of half hidden fantasies
when I look at you
bedroom eyes, bedroom hair, bedroom voice,
inconsequential syllables
slipsliding their way down your spinal column?
I bet I do...

She glares, in contempt of her cage.
She bites the bars.
She screams her rage.
Her sun thirsty skin stretched over a soul
too big,
too bound,
too much for this tiny cathedral.
The ceilings of her Sistine Chapel rebel against
her plaster skull.

They waltz in her spotlight,
fighting over her camera's eyes.
look at me
They flick their tongues,
bat their painted lashes.
They flash their brilliant colors,
their brilliant intellect.
Prey lying in the arms of predator,
they sacrifice sanity for the ecstasy of her madness,
just a taste of her sacred communion.

She drifts,
one to the next, because they're all the same.
They make promises they can't keep
for the sake of romance.
They marvel wide eyed, because she's not the same.
Absorb her until they can't,
and hobble away, broken.

They won't stop though.
Cracked like a whip on their tender skin,
they come back,
limping and smiling.
Her weakness in the devotion playing on their
bitten, pouting lips.

"Love me." said The *******
                                                                          **"Always." said The Sadist"

Those that say writing is for those avoiding life,
have never seen the way my pen
dances across it's stage.
They've never seen the way words can
wrap themselves about you,
settle in your bones,
nap in your empty places, guarding your secrets.
They don't know how it feels
to squirm under the relevance of a poet's
transcending prophecies.
They don't know the subconscious way we bite our lips
when e.e. cummings whispers
oceantides.
Or how we sigh, starry-eyed
when T.S. Eliot feeds our fantasies with dreams
of places and things we can't find in our backyards.
They can't possibly understand
the relief of understanding,
when Sylvia Plath eviscerates herself into our thirsty
mouths, spilling her soul onto skinsoft pages.
Maybe, then
poets are not so alive after all,
human sacrifices to their own mortal experience.

Freedom lies close to loneliness.
Success often dines with its enemies.
Love must bear the weight of loss.
Happiness always knows pain.
Peace cannot scrub the blood from it's hands.
Life can not exist without death.
Nature doesn't know the meaning of "fair".
You deserve what you end up with.
Poets are made from misery.
You cannot control life,
only react to it's obstacles.
And sometimes,
**** Happens