You're no longer a person
You're just a poster
You're propaganda
You're a poser
You advertise
You black out our eyes
You're no longer a person
You're just a poster

The ripples in the water
Your hand dips into it
I look beside me
You're not there

I welcome nightmares
Like the sunlight in day
There I see your face
Losing light in your eyes

Tomorrow is a dreadful friend
Each time he takes away
Something of you
Something of memory

Your smell
Your smile
Your touch
Your love

I don't want to forget
Let the rain fall
Let the skies darken
Just don't make me forget

Let the water ripple in my heart
Let your hand dip into its depths again
Just don't make me forget
Just don't make me forget

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
It used to be my parents when I would fall.
Lacking the strength or knowledge to stand on my own,
they would lead me
teach me
support this insecure child.

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
A shot of *******, another sip of alcohol.
Liquid courage to face the day,
flexing my beer muscles for the ladies
my true self atrophied from years of inactivity.

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
With my crutches gone, it's time for me to stand tall.
I've worn out every crutch
under the ballooning weight of my insecurity
and now with wobbly legs and unsure steps,
I must learn to stand on my own.

She who did not come, wasn't she determined
nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
If we had to exist to become the one we love,
what would the heart have to create?

Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
the center of all my labors and my loves.
If I've wept for you so much, it's because
I preferred you among so many outlined joys.

I was never perfect
I can be the calm after the storm
rage when its about to transform
I am a mess in its clearest form
but I'm not here to misinform
all I ever wanted is to let go of the norm
I was never perfect
but I can be madness in its unconditional form

I drew a portrait
of my memories:
dark blue and green
in purity. They are humming bold
circles swirling.
Red cores singing of
a fresh imagine.

Then,
Suddenly,
Just there,
the gray seaweed of time extends.
stabbing circles,
now the gruesome gray
intertwining twang of time
twisting itself into my memory.  

I asked him, "What does this mean to you?"
He said, "It is just a pretty pattern."