Don't tell me he's a bad boy,
Because I already know.
Don't tell me he'll hurt me,
Because I already know.
But how could you,
You of all people,
Know how this feels?
To know he's a tool,
But loving when he smiles at you;
To hear him ask about how you are
And knowing you're not his only one;
To ache for him to whisper your name
With the idea he'll break your heart?
I know these things
As clearly as I know the sun raise,
But all notion and reason escape
When he meets my eyes…

If I could rearrange my body,
I'd move my humorous bone to my brain
because, honestly, I'm the last one to get the joke.
The sole of my feet would house my heart
so every step I take, Mother Nature feels my love.
My ears would be close to my hands
so when I reach out, he'll see that I'm listening.
One eye behind my head, the other facing forward,
one looking for stray daggers, the other focused on the future.
I'd move some bones to form a breastplate
because I'm more afraid of what's to come than what happened.
I just wouldn't want to loosen my humanity.

Red, red is the color of my hunger,
like the blood that flows from the cut
on my left ring finger. Like the rose that
withered on                  my front door step.
Like the color               of my cheeks or
the echoing of a bruise. Your hunger
is a darkness that is simply
nothing, like            a black hole of
constantly               collapsing stars
that shine                  like an angler fish’s
allure. Like                a deep, deep green
that feeds                   upon the beautiful.
Like a hypnotic            blue that envelopes
you in a trance              of one thousand pounds.

I'm standing in a room of mirrors;
I am the only one here,
but not the only reflection.
Look to my left and see green eyes.
Turn to my right and see black eyes.
Peer over my shoulder and see blue eyes.
Lift my head to hazel eyes.
In front of me are brown eyes -
my eyes.
All at once the eyes reach out.
Green eyes place a hand on my shoulder.
Black eyes grab my wrist.
Blue eyes claw at my ankles.
Hazel eyes cradle my face.
Brown eyes look into mine.
She doesn't reach for me,
doesn't even smile as
she turns and walks away.
I take a step for her,
but the hands hold me like chains.
She looks over her shoulder with disgust,
then disappears into nothing.
I'm standing in a room of mirrors;
every reflection but my own.
Who am I
now that my own self has left me?

"I hear you. I do. But of all the reasons you've expound of why we can't be together none are of the heart. I have to fight every instinct I have pulling me toward you. When I'm near you I am aware of every breath you take and when I am away even the wind in the trees reminds me of you."

I am the road-paver,
I am the stone-setter,
the aimless wonderer.

Not a second glance
as I lay the manse,
but not a chance

that I receive praise
for this golden runway
on which you will parade.

But, how lovely is she
dancing content, so free,
she makes it look so easy.

I'm not one for pride
but dance shoes worn and dried,
yet only given a small aside.

I am the road-paver,
the stone-setter,
the aimless wonderer,
don't mind me, I'll just be
keeping quiet,
because I know better.

Love:
passionate affection or desire
for another person

A figurative roller-coaster,
the very thought of it excites and terrifies.
People wait in lines
for what feels like years --
sometimes they chicken out --
other times they strap themselves in.
Releasing themselves to the whim
of the mechanical beast,
they're powerless.
There will be moments
of pure ecstasy as they lerk forward,
plunging into the unknown.
Times of stillness will come --
sometimes the ride simply breaks down --
depending on the patience of the rider,
the ride might continue.
For most,
the ride will eventually end,
and they'll wait in someone else's line.
For few,
they'll ride that roller-coaster forever,
happily resting when all is said and done.

The single word that defines
all
                       of
                                               this
was obviously assigned by someone
who has never been on a roller-coaster.

There was a thief in my house
He crept in late in the night
He let his flame run wild
Ate my desk, my chairs
Danced on our bed when
He let his flame run wild

My heart's ablaze
Given from a late night thief
Please! Call 9-1-1!
This flame just brings grief
Bring Firemen!
This smoke pollutes air
He let that flame run wild
Now I'm just ash

Bury me deep but
My heart still burns
Fetch my love, let him see

Let him see his heart burn like mine
Yet he'll walk away, feeling fine
Late night thief, my love, killed me.

I am the reminiscent glow of warmth in the midst of a light autumn snow: the embers itching for something new to swallow, perhaps another brittle arm of a Douglas Fir or the soaked heart of a Willow, but I wait in agony even if you've been gone for hours because maybe you're just looking for the perfect branch or maybe you've found a new fire to keep you warm?

My skin is nothing but mere ash compacted into a human body, crumbling away with each touch and yet there I was laying next to him after my heart stopped beating with your softening footsteps; he ignited me for a breath and stumbled away for a girl who burns so much brighter than I.

I am a benign fire hazard with a finger curled around an unlit match, salt water drenching its ruby crown and its body straining against my grip, but I can do it myself -- I can keep myself warm if I can only have the will to keep these embers glowing just a bit longer.

That morning of the 14th, my daddy woke me up.
It was a rushed “Good Morning,”
Because he was going to be late to work.
He made sure I was dressed, with backpack in hand,
And stumbled me to the bus stop.
The bus was late, that Friday morning.
I wished it would hurry,
Daddy is getting angry.
When the bus rolled down the street,
Daddy kissed me hurriedly on the cheek.
I climbed aboard and watched him drive away,
A growing tightness in my chest.
I looked down, red blossoming in my small chest,
And cried.
The pain was nothing like falling from my bike,
Or getting pricked by scissors.
It was like watching my daddy drive away,
Or seeing him cry.
It was like watching him come home without me,
Or seeing him lock my door.
It was like watching him curse himself,
For that rushed “Good Morning.”

You are the enrapturing, encapturing, sunset I wish I couldn't remember,
the warming, warning, spring rays I wish never freckled my shoulders,
the beaming, beating, summer heat I wish hadn't seeped red on my entirety.

You are the shunning, stunning, sunrise I wish I couldn't see,
the scarred, sacred, autumn sun I wish didn't make me stronger,
the blight, light, winter sun I wish stayed hidden behind grey clouds.

My dear, you are the most bewitching chapter of my life,
the tear-soaked pillows and the bar-coded mascara face:
another heartbreak ready for the card-catalog among masses.

Of all the lost souls I have come to know,
You are the bravest, strongest, most divine.
These misplaced foot steps set the world aglow,
With each touch of your hand, new stars align.
I assumed your wondering made you lost --
How foolish of me, but now I can see
You are more than stone: bright granite embossed
With love’s red roses, not sickly ivy.
Envy is my desire for your hands
And how they can shape such beautiful thoughts.
You are like a creation of Dream’s lands,
Lulled spirit tattooed with scattered inkblots.
     Wandering but not lost, found but still searching
     To bring color back to Earth’s eve of spring.

When I do meet the gun that will not fire,
I cross the trigger that has yet to rest.
My heart yearns for the ear of a liar,
a dark cipher and gnawed gold in his breast,
as fingers ache for the truth in his eye,
gilded guiles, a world he keeps private.
In a dream he shot me sweet as a sigh
with a touch fatal as any bullet,
but dreams melt like red and blue to purple,
creating a world of passion and pain --
he is a chained ankle and an angel,
a cold-shouldered knave and soft summer rain,
     a night vision of hope and black regret:
     a misfired gun I will not forget.

The line for the local convenience store
Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb,
Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor
And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”

We make like big balloons who self-implode:
Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns,
Fighting for survival makes mores erode
When a dark illusion has fooled billions.

Little John waits in line with his mommy,
No more than a decade, he learns to shoot.
Life was quiet like a dark raging sea,
Now we shake from a screen and men in suits

Fear not, trembling people of the world,
There is a way to end the gun violence,
To stop making canyons of the knurled:
Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!

Automatics in the professor’s desk,
Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs,
End common fear with something more grotesque:
Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.

You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river
And now I know that I am that swollen western stream
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
And you are the man that is sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling me how the sun made me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills...
I know that I am that western vein because
I know I give more than I take,
I know I could never stick around for long...
I feel like you're like the others
Who held me in a colander and
Walked away with all I could give them.

It's time to fight for your freedom.

Do you see yourself,
Silhouette against the setting sun -
Reds as deep as the monster's eyes,
Draped in cold silver?
A breast plate hides the heart,
Shin guards perverse agility,
Chain-mail protects strength,
A helmet retains sanity,
A trusty steed will hurry the process,
This cloth to ease the pain of battle,
A torch to ensure you won't get lost;
A sword to vanquish the creature that controls your heart.

Silhouette, with arm raised high,
Begins to charge just as stars dot the sky.

You have all you need,
now fight
until the only thing left you have to give
is a single breath
in which the dying words
I love you
are carried far away to the next champion
to fall at this beast's hands.

They told me to sleep,
I'd forget you by morning
Heart still beating strong.

Why can they not see
Every night my mind finds you,
Echoing last words?

There is no escape
From a dream ripping at scars
And holding me close.

Please, just one more time,
Cradle me close in my dreams
So I awaken strong.

Fear and lust are kin,
Controlling dreams, actions, thoughts…
You must live with it.

They tell me to sleep,
Dreaming will take me away,
But you are my dreams.

The space between the sheets
that mastered your every contour
is hollow like the whistling breeze of a mountain high.
The pillow, the top of my thighs,
that cradled you while you dreamt
is stiff like a rose left cracked and shambled in baking sun.
The spot just above your ear
brimming with memories and 'mares
is cold from the barrel of a constant gun.
Your finger or mine on the trigger,
it does not matter to me,
either way waking with a bullet cozy inside
filling like the space between the sheets
and softening the brain like feathers in a freshly fluffed pillow:
A memory that haunts and delights,
a hug and a kiss
a scream and a tear,
one and the same
like the wrath of tidal waves and soft bubbles of sea foam.

Her puffed pink lips wrapped
around the **** of her freshly lit cigarette,
hollowing her cheeks and sinking her eyes
as if death breathed her in and exhaled her out
as the smoke billowed out her nose
like an early 1950’s ad for Camel.
Her blue eyes were never opened all they way,
the black lashes heavy from the piling layers of mascara
she never washed off and under-eyes caked
with a yellow-orange tint that sat deep
into her sinking wrinkles, but the way her painted lips
kissed that cigarette made my heart yearn for a faster beat.
In and out, death bathed in her every breath until
nothing but the brown paper, stamped with her lipstick,
remained. Her ******* opened,
the cigarette still coughing up smoke as the toe
of her battered converse pressed it against the earth.
She waits a moment, looking out into
the busy streets of the city, until the itching of her fingers
is too much and she leans into her bag to pull out another one.
Through her heavy lashes, peaking over the basin under her eyes,
between the strands of her golden bangs
shown two bloodshot ponds that swallowed me whole.
The voice that snaked from her lips enticed me,
it sounded shattered and homely, rough and soothing,
as she leaned in and whispered
“Got a light?"

There is something romantic
about
           light
                     snowfall
                                      on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
                    from
                            falling
                      flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
                  yellow     dresses
                         powered
                              in
                        sparking
                       diamonds,
           swaying
      slowly to
            Father's
      lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
                          pours
                                    pink
                                            light
onto the dreary eyed school children

Yes, there is something romantic
about a
             light
                     snowfall
                                   on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
                the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
             melt
                             away.
Seeing the sun
                 beating
                    heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
                                                        ­                 is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.

I dreamt of being a snowflake while I slept a restless sleep.
It was quick -- painless
Like the death I always thought I'd be given.
I thought I fell from the heavens,
Touched by immortality and morality,
An open book -- open arms
Waiting for someone to save.
The prideful, hubris rotten, humans
Are the first to fall like bodies that could never quite get the parachute to open --
Frantic and regretful until... Splat.
I dreamt I was a snowflake,
But I do not deserve such a painless and gentle death:
Take my life, give it to another,
Surely there is any other more worthy than I --
I who have never reach for another,
I who cannot because pride demands me not to,
I who never learned it's okay to be weak
Until I found myself broken --
Like an oversized icicle, mocking and proud until gravity took it down.
I know it was just a dream when I saw myself a snowflake
Because I will not go gentle into the night.

I don't fear heights anymore
Because I realize
I'm already falling.
Head first, arms outstretched,
Fingers achingly awaiting
The softness of your skin.
You have me in some strange place--
Where I'm among the stars
Yet stomach caught in free fall,
Head spinning
Yet eyes clearly seeing you,
Warmed by your arms
Yet shaking from your touch.
Down
        Down
                Down
                   ­      We go,
Yet we don't worry about the bottom.
As long as I have you now,
For this very second,
I don't care if I'm taken tonight.

I was taken last night,
the beating heart of a love
young and quick
ripped from the chasm
that is my chest.
Now our bodies
cold and hollow
rest upon the shore
of tears and lies
promises and anger,
just the top of the pile of many.
In the eyes of the fearful,
our bodies stroke the skies:
Why jump if it’s so short lived?
But me, soaking in
the salt foam and sand,
do not regret a second of
                                                 freefall.
It was beautiful, short as it was,
and edged in gold
in the book that is my memory.

Impact was not kind
to bodies so hollowed as us.
The dust of so many before
cloud around our crater.
Yes, we fell hard,
but we are not dust yet.
So many broken bones...
Count the bruises with me,
and use a tourniquet,
you just can’t use me anymore.
I won’t climb back up with you,
but I hope that you will.
I want to, one day,
watch you freefall with another,
to be happy with any other;
it just can’t be me anymore.

Until then, I’ll lay here,
only looking up,
closing my eyes to the sound
of hollowed bodies hitting the sand.

Some times I find myself thinking
Would it be better if I woke up dead?
That, somehow, all those people
That were my friends
My blood
The ones who thought they knew me
And the people who heard of me,
If by my absence everything would be better.
Too many times I find myself thinking
*Yes.

Stark, empty bullet shells scattered, by chance,
At her feet -- bedecking the ablazed brooks
Like young poppies glistening from the rain

Of the hellish hurricanes yet to come.
Man’s fear fans flames stronger than any wind --
Strength that ruins cities, yet keeps her sane

Like the arms of a mother now afflict’d --
Boiled black, bloodshot eyes. He is not her:
Take his hand, your pride has nothing to gain.

This darkness sated with dimly shining stars
Is not the end of your heavy heartbeat
Take his hand and see the red dawn again.

In the Light,
we hide.
In the Dark,
we shine.

Such strange creatures
we are
To hide from opportunity
for fear of failure,
To shine behind closed doors
for the feel of safety from gravity.

No matter how hard
we try
We can not hide the truth.

We hide in Light and
Shine in the Dark.
What strange, strange creatures
we are.

You only listen to clouds once they’ve rumbled,
And once they strike you wonder
How you could’ve possibly missed the warnings.
Lightning strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback,
But didn’t you see them shift?
Two dark bodies slamming into each other:
Colliding with rage and silent fear,
Conducting something sporadic and deadly,
Only to leave nothing but an echo and a reminiscing glow in the dark sky.
Sometimes it starts a fire, or takes a life,
But I love to watch it dance across the sky:
I shouldn’t.
Something so tragic and deadly should not fill me with awe,
Shouldn’t make me study and wonder --
Should make me cower and weep and mourn.
Lighting strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback.
It is the action to the voice the clouds whisper at night,
It is the last cry of rage or loneliness or fear,
It is sudden, but not without warning or precursor
You just have to be aware enough:
Watch as they dance.
See them cry and shake,
Listen to the rumble of their voice,
Feel the electricity dancing on the soft hairs of your arms,
Smell the damp city sidewalks,
Taste the copper on their tongue,
Watch as they dance across the sky:
Lightning struck so fast, it took everyone aback.

A window beside a child's bed
can be so many things.
It can be a killer of dreams,
a waking light in the darkness,
Or a savior from nightmares,
a torch in the dark dungeons of a haunted castle.
That window beside a child's bed
is so much more than it seems.
It's an escape,
a portal from this world to another,
It's the bars of a cage,
a reminder of seclusion.
This thin sheet of glass next to a child's bed
is as strong as bones.
It traps things inside,
dreams, nightmares

smoke

The window is as strong as glass,
letting nightmares rule, and suffocating dreams, hope; life.
A window beside a child's bed,
it was a killer of dreams,
a savior from nightmares,
an escape,
the bars of a cage.
It was a portal that has taken the child elsewhere,
now this child will never be afraid or alone,
This child will be free,
will be loved,
will be missed;
will be mourned.

Suffocated by a web of a world that does not understand:
Words in my throat, caught like little flies struggling against the weave,
Emotions suppressed deep, encased in the widow's cocoon --
I am silenced, hidden under the surface.

Like a star, hope trickles down soft as a weak creak stream.
Light but dull, a beacon in an entire world of darkness;
Little ones walking will be the ones to watch it grow strong,
But I, a little fly, will die waiting for a light that is not for me.

This web is a cold and lonely prison,
I pray that, in this blackness, I am not alone
As I wait for more hearts to light the spark
That might burn away this web of a cage.

I've tasted jealously before.
Jealousy for objects,
but never for a person.
It's a sickening taste,
and a nauseating smell,
but it fills me.
This jealously pools in my eyes
and rolls down my cheeks
in fat green drops.
And I can feel it -
bubbling angrily inside me.
It rises and falls like the tide
It churns and thrashes about
like a wave during a storm
or a wild beast -
it wants to be released onto her.
And the one thought that races through my mind:
HOW DARE SHE.
How Dare She..
how dare she...
As long as she is about,
my senses are nothing but useless.
Even when she is gone,
the thought of her angers a beast inside me.
And all I can think of is
*how
dare
she

How do you tell a heart to stop aching?
Command a warrior never to fight again?
A singer to never so much as hum another note?

Two long years, and all I've done is fight
sword raised high some days,
and others--
it's a miracle I'm standing.

How do you tell a bird to stop flying?
Persuade a flower never to bloom again?
A leaf never to fall?

Too many long days, and all I've done is sleep
dreaming of a world with escape,
and others--
a nightmare that leaves me weeping.

How do you tell the sun not to rise?
Punish a star for shining too bright?
Stop the moon from changing shapes?

Too many short seconds, and you're slipping away,
through my fingers like sands,
and others--
sitting on my shoulder with everything else.

Temptation is sweet, subtle,
Like the steady rhythm of beach waves --
Not there unless you're listening and
Watching for the sly and slick riptide.
The wait is agonizing, maddening,
Like walking along shell shattered sand --
Not willing to stop and reason
Knowing the anxiety is pulling people under.
The fall is sudden, quick,
Like the rush of a tidal wave --
Relentless in its destruction and
Scattering the power lusted as the serpent rises.

I met him at a party
The late night buzz and low lights
The blaring music and loose dancing
All shrouded in a fog of assorted drugs.
I met him at a party,
And he wrote his 10 numbers
On the back of my small hand.
I remember his smirk and
the way he said Call me.
He disappeared into the fog,
and is still awaiting a call
from that girl he met at a party.

It was late when I stumbled home,
Pepermint gum trying to hide
the harsh alcohol in my breath.
I came home and saw his number,
and for some reason,
thought it was yours.
I crawled through the haze of my house,
trying to find my room, my bed.
I snaked under the blankets,
and for some reason,
thought you were laying beside me.
I've never slept so soundly in my life.

By morning, my parents are asking questions,
but all I can see is his number on my hand.
I thought to myself
Now's my chance to start over,
to love someone new,
to forget the past.
I cried --
for joy or sadness, I'll never know.
Those tears fell onto his number,
and with a flick of my thumb,
it was gone.

Come my fellow hunters, follow me
as I am not likely to return.
Let us begin the journey to hunt him:
                                                      Beauty
Illusive -- have you ever seen such a beast?
Legends of
        Grace and Glamour
                Magnificence and Mesmerizing
yet no eyes have ever met his.
A shadow in the night, a ray in the morning,
dearest Apollo, is that you? Your songs lulls us,
but fairest Venus holds the leash.
He does not hide, this beast, as he stand tall
upon highway billboards and magazines.
Don’t think he’s gone, he’s just evolved,
photoshop to lure us, and then he
        pulls the trigger
                swallows the pills
                           slices the skin --
Beauty has become something lost in translation,
echoing in a past without
        makeup
                surgery
                           dieting.
Come my fellow hunters, follow me
as I am not likely to return.
We must strike him down with truths and
force his eyes on his ignorance.
When he lies, death cooing his sleep,
Leave me the bones
so that I might hang them for all to see.
A new symbol of freedom from chains
held by companies profiting from our pain.
Hunt with me so that one day we can say
                                The Beast is dead.

I wish I could find the book titled you,
The haphazard bounded and embroidered
Cover with pages spilling golden rue
And blurred lines under every lovely word…
But I don’t know where to look anymore
Or if my heart wants to ache like it did.
I couldn’t burn the secrets or foreswore
And forget the love seared on my eyelids…
But my thrum is in the eyes of a man,
Laced in every vein, waiting on his lips
Like a drug deal not according to plan
And your relapse stinging like poison whips.
     I’ve held and been held by this book in dreams
     And secret studies full of rouge sunbeams.
     Perhaps this diversion is what I needed;
     Maybe someday I'll learn to stop the bleeding?

Little boy praying at the shore,
do you not realize what you have done?
That flower, soft red petals and sharp thorns,
freshly picked and found home in your hands --
you tossed it into that achingly slow creek.
Little boy you must've known
that a flower like that would float away;
Yet here you kneel, tired eyes searching for it
and a hoarse voice calling out a name.
Little boy you could've stopped this.
Fingers were meant to hold things dear
yet it slipped, and you used them to point.
Feet were meant to bring people together
yet you watched, sitting, while it slowly washed away.
Little boy, what if I told you a secret?
That flower, with broken stem and burnt leaves,
held onto a passing rock and waited.
It waited for you to fight for it, but you didn't,
so that flower let go, drifting slowly away,
listening to the cries of a Little boy who could have.

This is it
the end.
Have all your loose
ends been tied?
All of your
debts been paid?
Good.
Now let us depart,
away from this crumbling world
and into the next.
I know it’s all falling around us,
with the ground shaking
and buildings tumbling, but
ignore it all,
and just come with me.
Together we’ll leave this horrid chasm
and sail away to an island.
One that hasn’t flooded,
one that has white sand,
blue oceans,
and swinging palm trees.
Look at me and
ignore it all,
dismiss the giant waves
and raging storms,
let the hurt go,
let the pain go, and
ignore it all.
I know that when the end comes,
we’ll be together,
away from the chaos.
Don’t worry about saying good bye,
we’ll see everyone in the end.
They’ll all be there, I promise. Now,
ignore it all,
and hold me tight
when the world ends.

The exchange happens
every year
every day
every hour.
Maybe the exchange happens
in the dead of night.
In the back ally of
some deserted block in
a busy city.
Mainly, the exchange happens
In broad day.
In flocks of chairs
that pack together in
one busy building.
The exchange is priceless,
so it is sold for free.
No, that's a lie--
You must offer your own--
sooner or later.
There is no due date
no interest
no penalties.
Whether you know it or not
you have taken part in the
exchange
every year
every day
every hour.

I put my ear up to the glass,
And hear white noise.
I can see your lips moving,
And hear white noise.
You’re so close, yet so far,
On the other side of the glass.
Your eyes look at me, and see nothing,
On the other side of the glass.
I want to break through,
And feel your skin, your arms; your lips.
I need to break this barrier
And feel you.

I reach for you,
But the glass is cold.
I remember your warmth,
But the glass is cold.
Do you not see me now that
The window has fogged?
Can you see my tears even though
The window has fogged?
I want to wipe away this steam
And feel our connection again.
I need to wipe this veil of questions
And feel you.

Do you hear that
Pounding sound?
Is that you, beating on the glass and making a
Pounding sound?
Is that you becoming a
Clear image?
Are you wiping away the steam for a
Clear image?
Do I have the strength, to wipe away the steam
And feel vulnerable with you?
Lend me your courage to break this glass
And feel you.

Silence sits heavy in the air around me,
Light whispers flitter above my head,
Studiers in the corner and writers on computers,
It almost sounds like sleeping or waking the dead.
A dreamer at his desk, maybe he is dead,
          His dream is peaceful and mislead.

And still, we sit here, with books lain amuss.
They have claimed this desk their newfound bed.
And so they stare at me, waiting to be opened,
Wanting to be peeked at, or better yet, read.
A story to be read, but the ending I dread,
          The ending where we are all dead.

An ending like such deserves no better from I
But sadly, these endings are published and read.
And who's not to say their words are not true?
A prophet? Yes, it might be - the story we all dread -
the book in which it is not pretty, but red.
          The ending for the dead.

You were in my dream last night
of course you were
because my dreams are the only place where you're mine.
A smile and a touch is all it takes,
and I'm head over heals in love again.
A playful shove and laugh,
and we're alone in the world, and I'm not scared.
A pair of fluttering eyelids and a harsh alarm
and I'm back to reality
back to war
back to winter
back to a world without *I'm sorry.

These are feelings,

Are sensations,
that blight every sense.

They have become
a disease that has
stolen my clarity

And leaves me with
ringing ears. These are
temptations that are like
extra shots of dopamine

And have left me
disoriented.
I hunger leave from this --
this ache that has consumed me
and left me hollow as a husk.

The greatest temptation of a trapped body is freedom.
A freedom of the soul that leaves the body behind,
in its prison,
and releases the soul
into the autumn wind.
The body is left with the dying green;
buried in browns, burgundies, and blacks;
decorated with red ribbons, purple and blue flowers,
and a rope -- around the neck.

A rope sent by the Devil in the mind's weakest state.
It coiled itself around the neck and hissed in the ears.
It sang:
So long as the body is snared, so is the soul and mind.
Yet, the mind wonders through deserts and swims in oceans.
But the rope sank its fangs deep into the mind,
releasing a poison that brought it to the prison of the body.
It became a mind craving the same release as the soul.
That is when the Devil wins; when temptation is taken,
and the soul has died,
alone,
lost in the autumn wind.

When you're nervous
about a certain event,
date, or time, you think
"It'll never come," or
"It's so far away."
But as soon as you
step on stage or
walk into the room,
that certain event
that you're nervous about,
that moment is now.
You're heartbeat is so loud
that it's all you hear.
A giant drum that pounds
at your sanity
and you wonder...
"Can I do this?"
And it feels that
the time you were
nervous, so many days
ago, was just yesterday.
But when the music
starts, the power point
begins, or the whistle
blows --
Everything falls away.
It's just you
and the
task ahead.