the darkness comes as it goes

the dread however, seems intent on staying.

falling to my feet only ends up a ****** mess

theres no soft place to fall,

no solice to take.

...

there is only the act of hardening

and tempered steel,

though, when cold to the touch

is savagely barren

it can still in the heat of fire

take on the attributes of warmth

and melt and become something rather inept

though slightly beautiful.

...

what then, is there to do but reform our selves

and invite anguish and pain and then harden and soften again

till we find the shape of our hearts in the mould of the future

we once dreamed of

if we can still remember it.

...

and dread will be our constant companion;

the third wheel in our fortunes.

which was never handed to us in any decent form of fate,

but that in that fight of going anywhere

somewhere hidden in the violent struggle

is our often ignored love

beating its heart out for the tempo to temper

and

both beats to trigger each other in all our love states

simply to be recognised for what they are,

invincible.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.
Questioning my sanity,
If you will.
You don't realize what you've done,
Do you?
You don't see what you've done.

Remember the time
You told me about when you were almost struck by lightning.
And then,
The results.
Your superpowers,
As you called them.
You'll never know how thankful I was for those
As the years went by.

You told me about the ghosts.
The little girl and boy
Who came to you for help.
She died in a barn,
That used to be in your backyard I think,
And needed your help.
She was your favourite, I could tell;
You talked about her a lot.
She slept in your bed sometimes, you told me.
But you couldn't communicate with her,
So you couldn't help her.
And that was that.

I told you about my ghosts.
My grandparents I've talked to,
And whatever evil is living in the guest room.
How my cats slink around my house
Like they're still alive.
Like the sounds I hear for no reason
And no explanation.

You envied me for that.
That I could hear them.
Because all you could do was see.

We were the only ones who believed each other.
Even when we hated each other,
And that was a long span of time,
We could still bond over this.
When no one else listened,
We did.
We were the only ones who understood.

I guess it's obvious enough that the phrase
"I see dead people"
Was tossed around a lot between us.
Because we could
And we knew it
And it scared us
And we loved it.

Until you stopped loving it.
And you claimed insanity.
You told me it was all in your head,
That you'd made it up
Because you're crazy.

So,
That's why  I've been calling myself crazy lately.
Because the only thing I trusted to understand me
Is telling me he's insane.
Who's to say I'm not the same?

the very cruelest of them all
The mirror that loves to see me fall
Breaks me and forces me to crawl
Tears me apart, taunts me for my flaws
Tells me i need to look like the celebrities
It denies me of my own identity
A mirror that holds me to nothing but perfection
When i fail it reflects only rejection
its always unhappy with my weight
Showing me nothing but laughter and hate
im to fat or thin to be of worth
I swear my body is cursed
The sight of myself is my biggest fear
Society is the cruelest mirror

I am asking you to be kind to me.
Let me remember.
Let me dream.
For however many months,
Don't let it fade.
I've read articles, I've researched for years
The mind, the logistics of memory.
I did it out of love.
I've explored it with the singular focus of a dying man
Scouring old books for evidence
Of the Fountain of Youth.

What can I do?
A certain perfume
Worn
To jog the brain and keep a memory in tact.
A gesture or a way to breathe
That brings you back to a lost moment,
A song or maybe
Just the deliberate reconstruction
By the detail
Of a beloved face in the air before you
Although you know it isn't there.

You can train your mind
To conjure ghosts.
And I have done so with mine, over years,
Even when it turns the talent on me viciously.
Am I toying with insanity
Inviting it in?
Perhaps.

Memories are gossamer, fragile,
Like paper so thin and pale and delicate
That you can see right through
And one touch of your fingers,
Even the lightest,
Powders them to silky dust.

I've sought relentlessly
Every trick and association,
Every scientific shortcut
To keep my treasured moments close.
I've touched, willfully, every detail of every second I can recall
Touched the smallest lines and angles and
The little places where the illusion wears thin
Unable to hold the potency of reality
Only its reflection.
I have made myself touch every single moment
That I know it would be easier to leave alone-
Memories are not meant to be so scrutinized.
The price of keeping them is the uncomfortable proximity
To something good which is long past
And the peculiar grief that it will never come again.

But there are things
There are people
In this world
Simply too important, too essential
To let go of.
There are memories
Worth the unsettling work of holding them.
There are moments
I would rather die than not relive.

Please,
I know you are more extraordinary than math equations and good grades
And pages and pages of poetry.
I know that with all of our hidden corners
And how little we know about our minds
You must have a way, you must have a gift for me,
You must have a chance to keep this close.
I am asking you to be what you are.
I am asking you to let me remember.
I am asking you to send me dreams and smiles
And to never let those blue eyes fade to the sepia of old memories
But to keep the vibrance that stops my heart
Alive in my head.

boredom is a tight shirt,
a blanket shamefully pulled over it
boredom is how whiskey learns how to taste better,

chum steeps in the waters constantly,
the fragmented dregs of flesh dance and so we catch them cautiously
with our gnaw of impatience

boredom is waking up early and laying in bed for an hour or three,
occasional outbursts of "fuuuucccckkkk" - and then it's coffee
rolling cigarettes out of abandoned butts - a true old stogie

television, ******* turned down in volume,
***, movements of no virtue
more whiskey and then the pillow and then things get interesting