Passion is poisonous.
It appears, slicing into my skin
and dragging itself behind me;
A heavy ball and chain.

It is not action;
I am a prisoner of war
Bound by my own shackles
A passive affliction I never wanted.

The prison to which I'm confined
Remains pleasant and open
As the little white poppies droop
In the window-box outside the bars.

We are stars in the sky, for each
shining beacon is a spirit up high.
Gleaming with the purity, now it
has left its mortal coil behind, for
if you ever lose that one close or
some one known, they are still
watching you from up high.

They are seeding the skies to light
the earth from above, never moving
guiding those below with there eternal
love.

They illuminate the skies, so we are
never in darkness, that there will
always be a light. To show those who
are mourning that there spirit is looking
down shimmering in the heavens.

For no one is really lost, they are just
on a journey in the heavens, and will
always shine there love for you from
above. If ever in doubt look to the sky
and see that one twinkle that is them
shining there love.

I’m afraid
and I write without
the second-thought
of the word following this
or the word before that
or the correct use of vocabulary
or the eloquence in the structure
of these lines ,

inconsistency has drowned me
and I’ve sold my soul
to love,
to you
and you’ve destroyed me
and my poetry
and all the art I once
found ease in creating.

he told me not to speak
with a voice so soft
fueling melancholic atmospheres,

so I kissed him on his cheek
unaware then, that it would cost
my eyes so many tears.

A group of friends,
A gathering,
Overlapped
And away,
Persists
Where all know all
With,
"You think you know me?"
In the all too honest background.

An answer to the above –
Our assumed empathy exists,
When truthfully
It truthfully eludes -
"You think I know you?"

"I"
Or rather the
"We" in the "here"
And "now" -
A lesser form,
And not our truest,
Hides the "real" and deep within.

Each has a pain,
Relatively at least
And perhaps our only concrete notion
Of who the "other" is.
A non-biological truth
Founded upon
A shared organic ancestry
Where
The skeletons in the closet
Translate as -
Lacks of ambition,
Ambiguous futures (at best),
Swept away addictions
And tears in the night,
Torture.

We shed our daily frown,
For a fake smile,
A facsimile
And play for the pains we do not share.
It’s a place
Where the hidden words,
The bad words,
The blasphemous words
Slip -
"Help me!"
And just as quickly
Retract -
"Never mind."

We hide it deep
And hide it well,
Because it's when it's
Shared
That we become what we try to
Avoid -
Attached
And in fear of losing
Each other.

Thus remains –
The ******* of perception.
As we hold to this
State of confused,
Or concussive,
Happiness.
And only later will we all cry,
As we've all gone home
And alone.