They say to have a writer
Fall in love with you
So you will never die.
But I say
Seize the love of a musician.
Someone to write you
Into colors in the air
And star-****** behind the eyelids
Of any who will listen
To the tale of you that they wrote.

Musicians, like writers,
Bring light through a fog
With their love-speak and poems.
But music-makers
Can create flowers in winter
And warmth without fire.
Their melodies dance
Over the swish of grass blades
And between the tooth-gaps of children
Whose fingers are sticky
With sweet popsicle juice
While an oil-painted scene
Is painted in your mind.

So be cherished my a musician
And hear yourself forever;
Be sung by a hundred different voices,
Danced by fairies and pretty young girls,
Costumed in dissonance,
Etched into souls.
For you can never really die
When you echo forever in the cavern
Of a good song.

She kissed me
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

We fell in
love.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

We made
mistakes.
Not because
we wanted to
but because
we could.

We thought
we were
perfect.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

I vomited in
the bathroom
of a
Baltimore
7-11
because
sometimes
you cannot
hold it in
much
longer.

Her hands shook
as she held her
mirror
because
sometimes
your reflection
can only
tell you
so much.

My body shook.
Her body stiff.
And when
the bodies
move
the hearts
stop.

She lied some.
I drank words.
The veins
in hands
are maps
to imagined
consciousness.

Really,
it's just
a
*******
*****.

Music to
my ears.
Nervousness
between
blinks.
Noise to
my brain.

She said,
"I love you"
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

I said,
"I love you, too,"
not because
I could
but because
I wanted to.

Father mosquito
drank my blood
and promised me
that there was a lot
to live for:
***, money,
women, love,
food, water.

But *** is only worth
the ten seconds
after I ***:
the ten seconds
where my body breaks
but not my heart.

And money is an idea
that belongs to someone else.
So, the money I have
never really is mine.
The things I need,
I'll never have.
The things I have,
I'll never need.

I do love the softness of women,
Father Mosquito.
You have understood me
once.

It's just underneath
my skin.

But you say love
and no love
is as important
as self-love.
No lips stitched into mine
is worth the feeling
unless I understand my worth,
and you're currently
*******
it
dry.

What happens when food
loses its taste?
And water is no longer cold?
What happens when
my body fails me?
Drink my blood
since it is yours, too,
father.

It's just underneath
my skin.

What is this love thing everyone writes about? Is it that loud noise in my cells that keep me awake during the suns travel during the night?
If I may propose this to you? Maybe its the look in your infinite eyes while you look away with your mouth slacked. Or maybe the way the skin on your fingers rub against mine. Maybe its the fragments and the friction that keep me awake during the day. Maybe its the way your tongue taste or the way the moon lights up your silhouette shadow on my side of the side walk. Or maybe the oils in your hair or maybe the layers in your fingernails. Is it the length of your toes and the shape of your laugh, is it the depth of your mind and every bit of syllable that your heart speaks to me.

Is it the pain I feel during Long nights where I consumed much more than I could possibly hold
Was it the rumble in my room when you told me that you could no longer stay by my side
Or the smirk that stood on my face the rest of the night
The one I gave just to try sustain all the tears
But somehow they rolled off my cheeks and fogged up my glasses
As I said my goodbyes to the life that we won't spend together
Its the darkness that now devours my room
My 15 hours of sleep
Its my 4th shot of whiskey
Or the bags under my eyes
But now everyday I slowly become a part of your yesterday
While you are stuck in my today and my tomorrow
I'm pinning for her
Why yes the person underneath dies by the wayside

'In the absence of your love & in the absence of human touch, I have decided I'm throwing my arms around Paris because only stone and steel accept my love'

The stars are still twinkling
The moon is still glowing
The sun is still shining
The Earth is spinning
The birds are chirping
The time is still ticking

So why am I still so sad?

winter day
the cold burns
the music in my brothers room is loud
so i walk downstairs and outside
to the garage
and stand silent in the bitterness of winter
angry that i cannot have loud music
angry that i am not my brother
my heart thunders in my chest as i read the written phrase
this was madness in its infancy
this twisted place
i called home
this paper thin disguise
that hides us all
from ourselfs
she looked at me
but i could not see her
i could only see what i could not feel
this paper thin disguise
ugly and distorted

I wish I could put my tongue
on exactly what I want
as much as I put it against yours.
I wish I could hold your heart
in my hands
instead of leaving mine in a ****** pile
in yours.
I wish I was addicted to my heartbeat
after three (or four) **** rips
instead of my heartbeat
when I'm dressing to see you.
I wish I knew my mother
as well as I got to know yours
when we sat side by side
waiting for you to wake up
after swallowing a bottle of aspirin.
I wish I cut up your letters
instead of my own arms
but I can't think of any other way
to get you out of my skin.
I wish I loved myself
as much as I love you
but I wasn't lying when I said
you are the better part of me.