My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

I sit with the blade to my skin waiting for it to begin
Letting it slide across my hide
It stirs an urge deep inside
Making crave the last time
I feel my heart beat pumping an jumping
waiting for the ripping an slashing
Will the blood pour like it did before
will it swirl an twirl to the floor
It sits with need wanting to be freed
The blood runs thick from those ravaged slits
Making the sight sting an bite
The river of red dancing in my head

For years I’ve wondered as I wept,
What’s the use of things I’ve kept?
Dusty, broken, put away,
Is there a reason for the things I’ve saved?

Moments pass when I dance alone,
Thinking about the things I know,
Leaping bounds beyond my feet,
Is there a reason my heart still beats?

Sailing by the current's way,
Listless memories begin to fray,
But I turn my head in a righteous rage,
And watch the ashes turn to flame.

Harvest fruits of this tree,
Can no one tell what's left of me?
Living life in this endless cave,
Clawing away from the inevitable grave.

Watching a sunrise turn to dark,
I lament, have I left my mark?
Bits of life run through my hands,
Every moment a grain of sand.

Running alone for many miles,
Against this desert rain I smile,
For fresh beginnings keep me alive,
I know what's waiting when I arrive.

Oceans wash my restless limbs,
Fading out as the twilight dims,
I listen closely for one command,
In the silence, I reach for hands.

Glistening in my closing life,
A shining spark has yet to fight,
But I close my eyes and breath in peace,
Letting go for a sweet release.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted *****
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find your mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.

People say things that they don't really mean...
when they're upset, and they're angry, they say such horrible things.
Wished their hands wrapped around your neck...and squeezed all the air out.
Dreamed they stabbed you in the back...and pushed you into the water, and watched you drown.
All those horrible things managed to scar me...
All their compliments and sweet nothings just disappeared completely...
swallowed by their negativity.
Because you could never wound someone with sugar-coated sappiness...
and you can never scar someone with happiness.
Bliss is such a flighty feeling, something you could catch and hold for just a minute or so.
but you have to let it go, or it's delicate powdery wings just disintegrate on your skin, now let it go...
It dies either way, right before your eyes...
One of the prettiest lies.
Now cruelty is another thing...
It crawls all over your skin, leaving slimy trails, and they cut in somehow and cause bleeding.
**Now that scars you deeply...

The shell of objects inwardly consumed
Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes;
Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things,
Nature, such love to hold the form she makes.
Thus, wasted joys will show their early bloom,
Yet crumble at the breath of a caress;
The golden fruitage hides the scathèd bough,
****** it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness.
For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night
To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed;
Here were the flowers, the music, as of old,
Almost the very olden time it seemed.
For one with cheek unfaded, (though he brings
My buried brothers to me, in his look,)
Said, 'Will you dance?' At the accustomed words
I gave my hand, the old position took.
Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once
I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow,
While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh,
And in its young pride said, 'Lie lightly thou!'

Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high
My breast against the golden waves of sound,
I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance,
Mocking fatigue, that never could be found.

Chide not,--it was not vanity, nor sense,
(The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,)
But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength
To the harmonious limits of her right.

She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours,
To winds that sweep, to stars that noiseless turn;
She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep
Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn.

And sure, that prodigal o'erflow of life,
Unvow'd as yet to family or state,
Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals
Make holy, in the pageant of our fate.

Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more--
For, as I moved to join the dizzy race,
My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone,
And others showed them, smiling, in my face.

Faintly I met the shock of circling forms
Linked each to other, Fashion's galley-slaves,
Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost
That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves.

For graves were 'neath my feet, whose placid masks
Smiled out upon my folly mournfully,
While all the host of the departed said,
'Tread lightly--thou art ashes, even as we.'