i just want you to know me
and i want to know you,
but ego
and curiosity
can’t live together comfortably
Because most things I’m ‘fraid to ask
And most thing I’m ‘fraid to know.
Falling to ash in someone’s arms isn’t as hard as sugarcoating
the things we all go through
And we all feel like this
And we all “don’t”
So we decorate our walls
And make sure there no windows.
My eyes are black, so I’ve never
had to worry much about that.
Nothing to tell- nothing to show
Cold, hard touch
not sure where or how to crack the ice..
i hear ”warmth will melt”
But all human hearts
have different boiling points
And my skin
is too sensitive to test those waters.

part man?
sagitario,
Burning
arrows inscribed
with stories of
sparks and
Fires started.
be it you?
decoding the stars in my eyes,
a patience
neither side of me has known
for questions
with no definite answers.
A touch like fire
that licks up my skin
burning the old
igniting the fresh
feeling of skin on skin,
fire and air
can you breathe with out me?

Sometimes i think of
who i once was-
especially the person i "would be"
in my head as a child

who i would be, existing
as my own idea of where
i should be living
and being.

without any real
tools to paint this picture
i made a mess of
my self image.

not then,
but now.

because now i'm not sure if
any of the pictures i painted
were ever looked at closely

standing back equates all my desires
yet up close i begin to fall apart
as my microscopic eyes
tear that which
fell under my hand

i'll probably always wander aimlessly,
and while all these faces seem to look the same to me,
i could undoubtedly decipher
you from a crowd
and although i like to keep
my deepest thoughts quiet,
my love for you screams so
unbearably loud.

it's treacherous, really
how far out of your way
you are willing to go
just to find someone who
is not me.

and for what?

for the adrenaline rush of
an ego boost (?)

and at the price of what?
the hem that has held
my heart together
is beginning to rip-
the seams are giving way
spilling out every
and all
of the things that i try
so hard to contain

at the price of my own
comfortability.
i forfeit my precious solitude,
only to be met with
the coldest
and emptiest of embraces.
slight looks of annoyance,
eyes averted quickly
at laughter
as if mad that someone
might hear me.

where do i get off
on burning the
ends of my nerves
so that your touch
does not make me
shudder?

attempting to hold it all together,
as i can  be responsible for you
in life
but not ever
in death.

Have you ever
crumpled beneath
the weight of
your own hands?

have you felt your
skin crawl
at the thought
of your own
solitude?

ashamed
as if things
like this do not happen
to people like you

apologies
as if
the burden laid not
on your own shoulders.
yet the diaphragm
of those who tell you
"it will be okay"

the most dangerous person I know was a beautiful girl,
with a singing voice like white chalk:
when you came into contact with that voice, even momentarily
you found your fingertips lightly dusted
and the taste of chalk in your lungs
She settled on you.

This girl left pieces of herself everywhere--
anchors.
to things she knew should be
important to her, but instead she couldn't find the commitment
enough to make them important.

she could only find
fragments of a conversation
about anything
that affirmed her
self-importance
or made her feel
important.
even if only for a second.

she disregarded the pain that lumbered just beneath those
glimmering retinas,
only to step closer and see the light
was just a reflection of whatever stood before her.

so she anchored herself to humans.
she chose to connect with people
based on the "mutual" stars in
their eyes.
and how they felt important.
she anchored herself to
the expectations held aloof in
the eyes of her unattached lover.
Eyes that swam with the imaginary meetings and hopefulness
to obtain girls not her.

and so she swam.

at first, she treaded water like it the thing to do in the eyes of your
"lover"
then, the ropes she tied to herself
to make anchors began to drag her down.

the people she anchored herself to reached out as far as the cold depths would allow
but she refused to tread the last few feet and take hold
of a shoreline filled with
finite praise for not drowning herself.

The most dangerous girl I knew
made drowning the important thing.
and now she waits, sunken and waterlogged
with the weight of eyes that are not hers.

The eyes of her lover, who sparkle artificially
as the light is just a reflection of whatever stands in front of him.

i wonder
how is this last
strange trip
for you?
The odyssey
you embarked on
to the realm of
uncharted enchantry.
hope
or hopefully,
a fresh beginning
release.
loosing a grip
on a slight handheld
in this reality.
the only
thing i can
think of is the
last laugh
every and all
you were humorous,
and now
i wonder
if this is some
ever -sarcastic joke?
time won't
even tell me
the meaning

never has death
seemed more
humble, or charming
sincere, engaging.
Extending a hand
to a friend
in need
it seems.
But we only
brush fingertips...
I am scared
that the land of the dead
will not accept me
if I
stumble in
uninvited.

it begins about mid-evening,
the edges of the rug being pulled
ever so gently.
intoxicated feet
do not notice a room slipping
beneath them.

it hastens nearer to morning;
as the magic carpet ride is
coming to a close
we begin to pat our bodies
& notice the things that fell from us.
sobriety. clothes. drugs. money....
ego   walls   pain

After inventory is taken,
the day starts without waiting for
your tired eyes.
oh, the saddest meeting of eyes,
with the swiftest passing of friends, drugs, memories, laughter
evening abliss.

I am dropped,
center stage -- reality.
at the same moment the drugs wear off. the last quarter is spent. the first rays of the sun peek through
and the last meeting of eyes
as the last glimpse of a shoe
disappears at the door's edge.

the rug has been pulled
reality
and the curtains have been drawn
slumber.

i brushed up against the spirit molecule,
and now my paintbrush is stained
with the most vivid and true of colors.
i tripped into the abyss
only to be greeted by the floor
of the gods.
A scraped knee, in a mental mecca
is a sure enough trade off for me.

It's "Originality"
and she bleeds it.
She doesn't just want it,
she needs it.
Each day she Lives it
and each day she breathes it
She told me she hates it,
and I know that she means it
A sweet, blooming flower
left to rot--alone,
in secret.
no outlet for an energy
so hungry you're left speechless
to this dead flower I send my condolences,
the deepest