And I'm sitting in my work parking lot, trying to remember why my headlights don't turn off on their own, I begin to cry.

Not because it's 10 PM in a town that sleeps at 8, or because no one is here to help me, but because I can't remember the last time I laughed.

I'm sitting here, my head low into the steering wheel, crying because I never got to say goodbye to the people who mattered most.

I'm crying because all around me are burnt bridges and broken promises, and my headlights never turn off.

My car is empty, depleted.
We commiserate for a moment, thinking of unblown candles on a death bed birthday. The last whisper of love as it fades behind a crooked smile, her strawberry lips pressed against your neck, you knowing this moment is finite.

The frost on the Windows threaten to give me cold comfort where there is none, I am wrapped in a blanket of empty sorrow and hopeful wishes that will never pan out.

The lights are still on around me, the music, faded in the background, and my broke down car resonates perfectly with the broke down me.

Red light...
One more broken promise
One more temptation sated

Red light...
The way she leans toward me,
Like a wave crashing into the sand

Red Light...
Just.. one more? Please don't,
Don't turn green yet.

Red Light...
I could have sworn we said this wouldn't happen, but I'm so glad it did.

Red, her lips turned into a smirk,
Her eyes looking into mine

Red, the anticipation, the clashing of our tongues, the blood, coursing through my excited veins

Red, the hair in my hands, my hands, wandering

Red, the flush of my cheeks as I sin in the sweetest of ways

Red, the rush as her lips curl around my ear, her breath warm and inviting

Red, the blood as she bit my lip, causing noises to cone out of me I haven't heard in some time

Red, my face as my hand was guided, my body far more willing than my mind.

That night I drove 90 all the way home in an attempt to recreate how alive I felt in that moment.

So kiss me again under the full moon, and beautifully destroy me.

Its 4 A.M. and I'm listening to another obscure indie band I think you'd like.
The Album in question is appropriately named:
People Who Can Eat People Are The Luckiest People in The World.
Apparently, we all have bad people inside us.
Rapists, Nazis, Politicians, all crowded inside our tiny hearts.
No more room for compassion.
I guess we eat our issues and stuff them there,
Like some sort of factory.
Maybe that's how evil is created.
Stories for another time i guess?
Its 5 A.M. and I still miss you.
The Next Album on my playlist is titled Hospice.
I suppose that's a way to say how i feel.
So close to giving up, just comfortably dying.
He keeps saying that he's sorry.
I'm not sure what for.
I'll send you another Playlist later today.
Maybe you will hear my screams in between the upbeat guitar
and crashing of drums that is my tired body and soul.
Maybe you can tell me what i don't understand.
Do the Impossible.
Fix me.
Its 6 A.M. and the music has shifted to Button Poetry broadcasts
Neil Hilborn and Reagan Meyers clash against Sabrina Benaim
all of them saying the same thing without speaking the same words.
"Broken does not mean useless"
"Depression is not a means to an end"
"You cant fix some things with paper and pens"
They all scream their emotions into an open mic, the feedback cries with resounding applause, hollow but sweet.
It's 7 A.M. and i'm still here.
Still silently screaming.
I pray that my words reach your deaf ears.

She said she found a nice boy.
He’s probably, let's be honest, much cooler than me.
Probably wears better leather jackets
And listens to more obscure indie rock than i do.

I should be happy, right?
Thats what im feeling?
Why on earth would i want someone to be alone?

Yet here I am,
Listening to Brand New
Thinking of you,
And how we drifted apart.

Was it my fault?
747 miles doesn't seem so far when you take a jet,
But missing you feels like forever,
And my cup is filled to the brim with shameful regret.

Is it wrong that i care about you just enough to nag at the back of my mind?
That with every playthrough of Deja Entendu and Science Fiction,
You seem to claw at the dark, uncharted corners, where i was most blind.

How do i tell you that i'll be fine, when we both know how i've been,
And how that is a far cry from the actual truth?

How do i tell you that i've been obsessed with knowing that you are happy,
Because it secretly kills me to know you are doing great without me?

How ****** up is that?

I need to know you are ok so i can't be.

Seems pretty backwards.

The sort of home you want to be in,
When all you can focus on are the buttons of his suit,
Tightly woven into the fabric, brand new

Is not the same house you were in when he was alive

Its 3 AM staring at the floor, begging for the sleep to take you,
Anywhere
Even nightmares are better than this, nothing.

The solemn stares churn my stomach,
Somersaults with acid, my body lurches
Doubling over in the pain that is grief.

When the eyes in a room all fixate on you,
It's difficult to hide in a box inside your own head,
Because they tear the walls from your fragile shelter,

And their rain is a burning flame,
You are the match that refuses to be put out,
But wants desperately to feel nothing.

The sort of home I want to be in is
Roses, the thorns cut clean from the stem,
Green tea, just the right temperature
And an old console with his favorite game loaded up

But that house is abandoned,
Left like last week's sawdust,
Swept under the rug in a pile of books,
And i am the can of kerosene in the corner of the room,

Waiting to be used in the most vile of ways.

I am an unlit candle in the midst of a hurricane,
The shadow of the night sky blotted out by the moon
I am the fading smile of remorse,
The pang of guilt,
The sorrow of loss

I am the broken inside of you,
The one that eats away at you until the shell is broken apart
And you are all that's left
In the dictionary, i look up sad and expect a picture of me,
Depressed is myself in my room, alone
Suicidal is the knife i once picked up,

Daring to question if my own beating heart was worth the blood

My House is boarded windows and jail cells,
The crawlspace of cobwebs and creaking stairs,
The leaky roof and patchy ceilings

I am all but a finished mess,
And my foundation is cracked and split.

There is always vacancy,
Because who wants to stay in a house like that?

I’d rent out the rooms, but i'm paying for their rent
if they choose to live inside these decrepit walls

I only wish someone would see the shambles
As a start, and not the leftover parts from a failure,

If these 4 walls housed opportunity,
Instead of destruction.

My house, is a home that i long since enjoyed.

If I could buy a rope,
To pull the heavens you search for
Into the palms of your outstretched hands,
I would max out all my credit cards
And go broke

We look to the sky in hope,
yet down into our hands while we pray
And until this moment
I never stopped to ask why

Maybe it's because heaven is hard work.
Faith is a job with overtime without pay
Religion doesn't have hour lunch breaks
Or water cooler discussion

My resounding resilience to religious rhetoric
Has been shaken by the stirs of sleepless nights and
The calming feel of drowning in my own sorrow in public

Perhaps we look down because we are ashamed
I’ve heard that's catholic guilt.
Or maybe it’s because
Looking up to that savior stings
Because we know we will never be so mighty, so incandescent.

I think heaven isn't just a place.
It isn't just those two golden gates that greet you next to
Gabriel and Michael, and the saints of the church

Heaven is in your pocket.
Heaven is the sand in a rotating hourglass
Heaven is the smile you never get tired of seeing

It's the last breath you take before falling asleep
And the sigh of relief as you finish a day's work
Heaven is the place on earth that you can't wait to be

Maybe one day, i'll find the heaven in me.

The fleeting dream
Is dangerous

Her lips
Curl into a perfect smile
Followed by that quiet laugh,
sweet like honey

In my mind,
We are in the backseat of my 2000 dodge,
Hands on each other and my lips pressed to your exposed neck

Instead, we are sharing stories about how ****** up our lives are
And how complicated situations can really get

She asks if i want a hug,
For her to embrace me slowly,
Her arms wrapped around my sides tenderly
as she tells me all she ever has loved
Using only the softness of her touch

If things were simple,
We would be at your house, in your bed
Reading neil hilborn and
Exchanging actions on these repressed feelings

The fleeting dream
Is curious

I wonder how many opportunities
To kiss you,
Ive missed?

I wonder if you feel the same way?

Are you as guilt ridden as me?

To want something off limits, and know you should never have it,
But like the succulence of the forbidden fruit,

You had to, just once?

You were my one and only sin,
The temptation i was falling into fully aware, and not dragging myself back from that ledge.