Off the silvery coast
A starving shipwreck flees
To escape, what can it be?
Just a murdered vessel's remains left at sea
-
On the open wilds, the woody plains of life
There always will be strife
A young woman turned to wife
But she don't love
-
In the icy wilderness, a man treads stoutly on
He is lost, but feels at home
The darkest place is safe, secure, and silent.
-
The hermit waits away the days in shadow, without sun
The hermit waits away the days in peace, without a soul.
The hermit has no need to wander wearily away
Until the break of day
What are the chances that he'll stay?
What are the chances that they'll understand me?
-
You walk a pace, the human race, divided, in your hands
A beach
In water
Sand
They never come together
They are separate.
-
Each one wishes, waits to show
That they indeed are real
They they indeed can feel
That their hearts aren't made of steel
And if pacts were signed they'd boot across the shores to face their fears.
-
A man will show his lover the hidden secrets of his heart
And if they break apart
The secrets will run lost in callous hands
-
Would it be better to isolate?
Or learn to face the pain?
I am lost in hail and rain
And my head is breaking out with sores and sorrows
-
The hermit waits away the days in shadow, without sun
The hermit waits away the days in peace, without a soul.
The hermit has no need to wander
For he has found himself in silence
And there's no need for alliance
No secrets shared, nor hidden passage found.

Rays of heart in my dreams
shining brighter than the sun
speaking fantasies of love
and realizing you're the one
so wherever you are
wherever you go
I  believe so far
that when I run
it is me who falls into your open arms
and I shall share your glow
and the brightness of that light is how much our feelings have grown

G-d knows I have tried
but he did nothing to help me.

I met my father at the end of the world
in a soundless meditation;
the still waters surrounded us
on some obsolete island,
but he could offer me nothing
apart from the same watery smile
I find in the mirror each time I drink.

Love came to me once
but I never felt worthy of it.

Since then, human touch was reduced
to formulaic platitudes;
a handshake from unerring acquaintances
and embraces from old friends
that always end too soon.
It is hard to be kind to yourself
when your bed is resolutely vacant.

Words may come to comfort others
but I am tired of hearing my voice.

Self-worth was lost to cigarette butts
and a loose grip on my sanity;
tasteless food sits in my mouth
and I can no longer appreciate
the fruits of privilege and shelter.
I am shielded from the rain
but the winter still finds me.

G-d knows I am doing my best.
It never quite seems enough.

All motions are fluid as she descends down the stairway

So delicate

As if she never even touches the steps

She remains in the nightgown from the previous evening

Her long, dark hair complementing its dark complexion

A cup of tea that's a little too hot

The morning routine

She quietly moves to a window

Softly blowing steam off the top of her cup, fogging up the glass in front of her

The outcome of contrasting temperatures does not cause her to move

She remains still

Silent

Elegant

She turns to face me, and my eyes open

Where she used to lay, where I used to meet that euphoric smile

Is now clairvoyant

waking up in a world full of grey
try to see the bright and amazing colors i know are there
forcing a smile when i want to cry
pop a pill and wish to be happy again
don't know what wrong with me
all i want to do is cry and rage i have no idea why
depression is darkness that creeps with in me
as i where a mask of happiness

I do not want to be a poet
it is too hard because
it is too easy
excuse the confusion
what I mean to say is
anyone can write poetry
good poetry is provocative
but think about it

thoughts are provocative
words are provocative
living a prerequisite for both of these things
IS PROVOCATIVE
to live is to experience
to experience is to have stories
and to share those stories
is to be a poet

the saying goes
if you put a team of monkeys in a room
for an infinite amount of time
you will eventually acquire all of Shakespeare's writings
but then again
keep the monkeys in the room for just a minute
and you'll leave with something
that at least resembles poetry

So why write?
why put pen to paper,
finger to key,
or even thought to mind?
Because if I don't no one will
I mean they "will" but not like I can
because although everyone is a poet
I am the only me

I am preparing for another girl I love
To go missing inside her own eyes.
I'm getting tired of goodbyes.

I adore you
Not as a collector idolizes what's his to keep

You're beautiful
the cusp of your hills
leading to a shallow sink hole
just before the meadows

You're perfect
The circular masses
surrounded by pure white sand
Even when it rains
emotions gleam flawlessly

You're joy
Hide poorly your white city
Covered by soft rose gardens
That part
In a way that evokes happiness
Within me

I adore you
Not the way a collector
Idolizes what isn't his to keep
But as

A traveler...
Lost in another land

...finds himself.