Dates
Sweet, bitter,
Not for everyone
An ambiguous gamble of
Fruit

at night, alone, it seems
my heart is ripping at its seams
torn by sunset's pull,
reaching out, for naught, it seems
my heart is ripping at its seams

the threads so caref'lly stitched,
tightly gripping my blood-bag's crease
waiting just for cruel fate's bite
or when the day turns into night

seeking, almost, to be forgotten,
lying, torn, only to turn rotten
inside me still, my heartstrings scream
whilst from their barren cage, pours steam

at daybreak, then,
my heart is mended
as though the night's events were pretended

i know now how
the blood can flow
and disregard
what i think i know

my mind is clear,
but it seems for naught
as again i feel the blood
begin to clot

slowing, beating,
struggling to rest
my eyes turn red
as the sun sets

with the star at noon
i feel relief
the moon incurs agony,
doubt, and grief

at night, the dark, alone
it seems
the ripping seams,
it seems…

are only in my dreams

Dry and arid land,
Infertile as it remains,
Holds beauty as well.

I met a woman on a city bus named Maude.
I stuck my gum under the seat in a ***.
She called me a sod,
I gave her a nod
and said, "it's 'cause I don't believe in God."

At the time, I know I was smilin'
in an effort to appear so beguilin'.
My beliefs, I'd been filin'.
Subjected God to no trialin'.
Others shoes, I never thought to walk a mile in.

Dear Father, who art in Heaven,
Is my faith but in Armageddon?
If I see no leaven,
I'll gather my brethren,
and return to the Seven Eleven.

Sometimes I just sit here
at my desk,
on this computer
waiting to get a message back from you

I do nothing else,
I just sit here
'cause I want an answer to something
or I just want to imagine the sound of your voice

But I know you're off eating breakfast,
or reading a good book,
or outside, or drawing,
or playing piano
even though you might not say you're off to do any of those things

Sometimes
with everything you do
as I'm sitting here
waiting to hear back from you
I almost wish
you didn't have better things to do with your time

Although my thoughts are scattered,
Bruised, beaten bare,
Clouded, messied, and
Dilluted,
Each one has weight, as they always did.
Filling the room with
Great wonder, and fire burning
Higher than ever before.
Identity is something I have yet to find.

There once was a cat in a maze
which never once altered its gaze.
It was so still and quiet
when e'eryone walked by it,
that no-one new it'd been dead for three days.

Today, I pretended you were dead.
You were no longer living, in my head.
My footsteps became heavier than lead,
because today, I pretended you were dead.

It didn't take long for me to see
that I wished it weren't you, that it were me
buried in the ground or in the sea,
my ashes flowing sweetly in the breeze.

I asked you the date; you wouldn't say.
You only said the month, and not the day.
I guess it doesn't matter, anyway,
'cause when you die, I will never be okay.

Today, I pretended you were dead.
You were no longer living, in my head.
You told me not to cry, or hang my head,
so I'll just sit here wishing it were me instead.