I don't even have words,
For the ways that I don't feel,
I am not the waving of the fields.

I hold onto songs about the moon,
My tides do not swell with her,
I am more the darkness in this room,
Cold, unmoving, absolute.

I am not the motion of your hair,
As he runs his fingers through it,
I no longer even stare.

I Am not the climbing of tree,
I do not yearn upward,
Is there anything to see?
(or be?)

I am not the warmness of your breath,
Clinging tight to your fingers,
And the inside of your chest,

I am not the dreams you make,
As dragons fly by night,
And sparks flow in your wake.

I am not the whispers,
You feel close to your ears,
I am more like distant echoes,

I wish I could break
Shatter into a million pieces
Of sharded glass, waiting to be stepped on.
Causing you to bleed wouldn't hurt me
Because I would already be broken.

This universe doesn't give a ****
Whether we're moving
Or camping out on life's sidelines.
The doers, in the end
Meet the same fate as the dreamers.

I want you to break me.
Work me until I fall apart
Until I can't take it anymore.
At least then
I will overdose on my need for perfection
Before I die of it.
You can take my needle from me
Before my heart stops beating.
Before it turns my blue vein black.

Then maybe I can stop craving
Everything that hopes to **** me off.

The last time I sat down with myself
was in the sink
in the dark
penetrating the only creative train I could find.
Coal, cargo...
Robbing words so I didn't have to think
or explain the difference between
'deeming' language and
'demon' language.
From my perspective in the sink,
the retouching of morals
is all circumstantial
because maybe tomorrow I'll save the fire
instead of the human,
you know, save the fire from the human.
That way, I don't have to decide
who's going to burn.

Regardless of what the future holds, I know
that no feat of mathematical precision
no combination of zeroes and ones
no mechanical tool, no algorithm
can replicate your face.
In the rise and fall of your eyelids
and the pursing of your lips
there is a lawless radiance.

If I told you that I wrote this
from the love I have for you
would you give it a second glance
would you read this whole poem through
would you look at me and just "tsk tsk"
this simply just won't do
If I wrote I until I could no more
would you read this
or would you still ignore
the me that was with you
through the times we used to adore
and would you go back to your house
hop into bed and begin to snore.
Even though its the middle of the day.

The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure; I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth,
a consequence of boredom.
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons.
I am today, you are only last night.

The braches of the faint oak were bewitched to a dark gold under
the orange, thick silk sunset. 
The wood, as the sun lowered, changed from apple green
to golden billow
which swept foamy,
rose clouds along a now cucumber, blurry horizon.
Plump plums and fruit rinds
litter ripe walkways alongside the flower beds who's tickled buds
are closing slightly as the fickle sky, gone nine, turns to a majestic
Indian blue and the June monastery's milky swirls are lit by the sugar lump stars.

The bane of courage was upon me.
I gathered myself
in the darkness of the truth.
You are not perfect, nor shall you be.
You are not always right.
It cut and burned like ice.
Shackled in the dark, by my own acts
I screamed and cried and fought,
as all Children of Men have once done.
Digging through the earth beneath me,
there lay the glowing key of Faith.
I had oft heard of such a treasure,
only when blinded could I see it.
Tears trickled through my smile,
tasting of acceptance and sweet catharsis.
Light was not at the end of the tunnel,
but here within my hands.

A broken swing set.
Dust carpeting the fractured terrain.
Lost, in forgotten memories.

i went for a run today and i couldn't catch my breath
and for some reason that's been happening often now.
it's like you only get so many breaths
and maybe i just don't have that many left.

i'm writing this poem right now and i'm using the font
that reminds me of your name.  it's not a pretty font,
but if you were a font, you wouldn't be pretty either.

i've been having trouble waking up in the morning.
my bedroom is too cold for me to jump out of bed.
i put socks on my feet to keep in the hear,
but when i wake up, the socks are lost in my sheets.

i get kind of nervous when i hear your name,
because this time last year, i didn't even know your name,
or who you were.

i have this weird bruise on my knee and i don't know where it came from.
it's dark purple and red and i'm worried.
i don't think i'd be able to handle losing my health,
but i kind of wonder how much i ever had it.

after june, i'll probably never see you again,
and you'll never think of me again.
i just wish you'd think of me, once.

sometimes during class i take my pulse
just to make sure it's still there.
it always is, and the i feel disgusted at myself
for wishing it wasn't.

There are unknown universes
in the deepest parts of your soul
that I wish to explore
*but you won't let me in

Dead weight
Living on the edge
Of burden casts a
Shadow in the light
For flat broke dreamers
Strumming their guitars
On broken strings and
Poets writing as the
Ink runs dry.

©Ben Ditmars 2014