Moving out
is the time you find
the remnants of past desires.
Tokens of others,
meant to keep and cherish
and always remember.
What happened
to the givers of these,
my companions of old?
I contemplate,
not out of hate,
and look to the phone
sitting alone...
But then I find
I do not care.

Pictures are a light
shining bright,
to the depths of our souls.
They catch you in your truest form and
you cannot lie,
not then or now,
because pictures never die.
They may brighten or darken the day,
but in the end they always light,
shining bright,
a time in the past
because pictures always last.

Can my poems touch you?
Can they make you feel?
I tell you what I think is true,
show you what is real.
How could my poems touch you,
maybe make you kneel,
if when the day is through,
even I can't feel?

Rage and crush and ****,
that's what I want to do,
I scream at the stars,
and reopen old scars.
My vision is red,
is it all in my head?
Why does this happen?
Who am I now?
Certainly not me,
at least not how I was meant to be.
I want to be loving,
and kind,
but doing that only gets me
left behind.

So I leave love,
like a lonesome banner
blowing in the wind,
after some tragic battle,
bloodied and tattered.
It means nothing,
because those who fight for it are gone.
It means nothing,
Because it's no longer needed,
It means nothing,
because it isn't real,
because a truer word for love is pain,
Ha! No, I could never do that,
I'm not strong enough to really do that,
so I sit and I wait
and I rage and I hate,
and maybe someday someone will come and they will see,
what truly has become of me,
they'll stay and we'll love and we'll cherish each other,
together we'll conquer and never leave for another,
forever turning to face new threats,
finding happiness like fishermen with overflowing nets,
but probably not.
For I haven't left love,
love has left me.

I am just a teddy bear,
that's what you always say,
to love and cuddle,
with you I simply lay,
but see,
I know the truth,
teddy bears never stay,
they are forgotten,
dismissed,
and finally thrown away.

They tell me that the night is black,
but I do not believe them,
darkness is
red-speckled,
        flowing
awash in crimson hue,
it is pink and puckered like a scar,
always present,
like shadows on a sunny day
are twisted
        doubled
more alive in sun.
They say the night is black,
but I do not believe them.
It is open wide and gushing
sanguine in its purest.