i don't know why i made you my air
cause now all i breath in is despair
why did we waste each others time
making our hearts believe, knowing its emotional crime
knowing deep down it would fail
but still chasing like a dog with it's tail

fate knew we would never work out
but we ignored it ,out and about
so in love we didn't need reason
our hearts performing treason
playing with our emotions
giving our deepest devotion
we knew what would happen yet we played
oh the beautiful memories we made

then your heart knew this distance was impossible
i was the one, my heart irresponsible
my mind in the cloud till you told the truth
but alas we are in our youth
distance and age was the cause
ripping my heart out with it claws

but it was weird when you said "this isn't working" that it really made me smile
cause we both knew that this would fail, calculate the miles
no tears left to cry
emotions are but dry
and just like ice melts in the rain
sometimes love turns to pain

Shall I not then collect words,
to paint colorful sketches of you,
to capture the moments we cannot otherwise retain
through scenes posing life and death?

Brushstroke of words,
sketches and etched memories in vibrant hues
Moments are thereby suspended
in the delicate balance of existence.

For in these words
and sketches, we reside.
Life's vibrant colors on the canvas of time,
In the contiguity of fleeting moments,
I find the art of holding you close.

Maybe I'll find
a 100-dollar bill amidst
the burnt umber
maple leaves.
Maybe the ambulance will
come disguised as an
ice cream truck.
Perhaps I'll find a
warm forgotten can of
beer in the dryer.
Maybe, I'll blow
up the moon.

I'm losing it.
My pants won't
stay up, and I haven't
got a belt.
I'm being devoured by
the autumn winds and
the grackles.

Insomnia is crushing me.
Febrile and ferocious,
I stalk the university streets,
too sick to work.
Maybe this abscessed tooth
will **** me.

I used to pound out
12 hour days in the
hot July bean fields.
Farmer John always
smiling and shaking
his head.

Life is a
bologna
sandwich, and
I write these little
poems in yellow
mustard.
And I wait.

Just wait.

shadows entangled so it happens
the oppressor and the oppressed
such an intimacy of pain terror and shame
in the quietness of the right hand the left hand
surrender to the cruelty of an exchange
to be or not to be delusional
this is a question
reality just an approximation of a terrifying
mystery without meaning

a beat of a heart alone in the dark
we have many songs but still little understanding
about the growing shadow lurking in the bright light

I remember.
I forget.
I wonder why.
You're so easy to remember.
You're so hard to forget.
Time ticks out no respite.
Today I am wrong.
The other day,
I was right.