Out of the
deepest crevices
of me pours
your love,

And on this
bridge we stand,
and let time blow by
like the wind.

Although I know
this love isn't mine,
I'll hold onto this moment
and let this life continue.

When this night
rests itself upon us,
and the children
close there eyes,

My thoughts will stay
steady on your lips,
and the water flowing
under the bridge.

And on this Bridge
I sit and stare
at the rocks laying together;
what could have been.

The way the words
dance out of your
mouth
like the steady flow
of water pouring down
the side of a cliff
Enchants me.
The thrill of the words
ringing from your mouth
make my spine tingle
and my teeth chatter.
the way your lips
dance with words
captivates me.

I find that when
I'm covered in soap,
my mind wonders the most.

.   .   .   .

Racing down my face
is a streak of blood,
a betrayal of my body,
it longs to feel air
because it's jealous of my skin.

.   .   .   .

He hands me a cigarette,
a gesture of friendship
which I respectfully decline
because time can heal wounds,
but it takes more than
a few seconds of silence
to rekindle a friendship.

.   .   .   .

The wind clings
the blood to my face
a reminder of your betrayal
and I wish it would go away
but It can't, can it?

.   .   .   .

And the soap washes the
red off my face, down the drain
shaping my aspirations of flying away.

She said "okay."
a blistering hit
like a baseball bat
swung at my face,
slowly engulfing it,
leaving nothing but blood & splinters.
And as the icy words
left her lips,
she had frozen the flame
I built for her,
for us,
and stomped the ice,
crushing it, and
leaving it to melt
into the dirt and
Vanish.
And she turned away,
leaving me to trace her path
till I could trace it no more.

Words may not be objects,
you may not be able to
hold words in your hand,
but they weigh a lot more
than you and I

Lines are just lines
until you give those lines
meaning.
Give those lines
meaning, and you give
those lines life.
Lines with life tell
stories of worlds
within worlds and
dreams only obtained
in our youth.
Lines are a gateway
to the depths of our
brain.
Lines let your heart
breathe sweet air.
Lines will dream and
dream until the dream is
done and all is
well.
Lines are life, if
you let lines live.

You were there for me
or so I'd like to think,
but not what I like to say
when I'm asked about you.

Your words spun around my head
and to this day,
I still remember when you said
You weren't afraid to die
and that you knew                                               I was
And I still remember how I felt
when I said you were wrong,
but I knew you were right.

I remember your hand
splashing across my face
like a tsunami crashing down
on me
I was weak and you knew this.
You knew I was weak, and
you know you changed me
with a stencil tracing of your hand
in red, on my face.

But did you know I missed you?

The guiltiest part
of an artist's daily life
is looking at their work;
their creation, their emotional expression
of the world they see around them
with regret and fear
that the real world around them
will pillage the creative structures
they have built around their heart,
knocking down this creative wall
keeping them safe from said
Art Vikings.

But, young creator,
never fret,
for your walls are strong,
and willing to accept
those willing to accept you,
and with this newly found
artistic army
you can fight the Vikings off
and glue that chip back to your
shoulder.