It is the dance before the long dance
With music played for two
With one a mask, and one unmasked
We linger still
Until the truth of the song is renewed

All descriptors
And ideas of self
Fade like the days spent walking
Down the path of possibly

And time
Time lasts just as surely
As it waits for no man named me

Hence why
Is the question which I ask myself
Must I try and be
When I've already become

Are you seeing this?
This is why the home.
Because sometimes you have to be a part of someone else's story in order to be able to write your own.

I hate being human.
I hate the waiver.
Because the things that I do habitually, aren't even me.
I just learn them.
Slowly.
Steadily.
The learned yet subconscious, Me.

The self says no
You cannot be
All that you once we're never me

Albeit truth past all within
There is also future time yet spent
To be more than all that has ever been

So move yourself
Til you you move again
Before the self can find it's voice and then

Would you tell yourself
You must
You can

Old words cry out
For more of themselves
And I
A selfish wordsmith unfound
Have nothing but headaches in mind
For them

I'm sorry
But you'll never begin again

Not

I could dry my skin and be like the bark
As one day I may sprout like a tree
Once again
But never in the moments to pass
Can I survive and be content
With thoughts that aren’t mine
Even if conjured up for a good cause

Because I write for the mind
As I am of the mind
And though I love the natural pass
The whim of the willow and waves which crash
Know this about me
I am as selfish as any human can be
So please appreciate it when it’s for you

Because most of the time my prose are for me

Once was given a great gift of voice
To sing loud and be heard before many a thousand
But the crowds silenced me, as I preferred to sleep
And speak less with the world a burden

I am selfish I find
Asking for differently
As my own first motivation is the speech within me
It is what is, will be

When I click, or scratch, or dial the wheel
or breathe out slow smoke, one, two three.
When I kick and grasp at nothing, and something
which grows high as the sky, and slowly as the trees, you see?  
How the ink runs dry
and the intent an ocean quells.
That each time the clock unwinds
another mountain flood, rolls itself down
onto an unsuspecting parchment town.
Little this is never free; the known things,
And why I send to you these things,
each time alive when I am found

There is an innocence about it
A sensation which slightly glows
And illuminates, the half of it
But does not act out of cluelessness
Or carelessness

No, it's a state of care free thoughtfulness
In which this kind of being exists

It hates the plow
It hates the system
It simply is
It simply lives

It connects itself to many things
And many people
With a genuine and expressive tone
And an innate sweetness inside of it

And when this sensation sleeps
The small corners of the world as they are
In one way or another
Are at peace

And when I am near
It is the same as when I am not
Behaving with steadfastness

And as it listens quietly
It puts me at ease
As I see it now, for what it is, in its innocence

And when given the opportunity to speak
I care for it
And yet, I cannot understand it's simplicity

In sight
It is a twist of hair in the seamless breeze
How it wavers without want or will

It simply is
A mess, yet controlled
And always in its own way, and by its own will

Deep water can be cold and treacherous
But shallow water can break, be seen and is warm
I love the water, but not like this
And not to submerge
That's not for me

Though these purveyors of sensation are incredibly
Unimaginably sweet

When the water boils
The pasta spine breaks
And the sizzling bake refuses to stop
I lose myself in the aroma around
Cooking like this
I am
Soundly simmering within the not
And at the same time
Lost
In the time which stops

I am drawn apart
Cut in half
Separated
Like the sea
Both the color
And the overcast
Reside in me
But do not think
For a second
That they are
The same in me
For they are separate
And aside
On the other side
O*f the other me

My eyes open wider
My shoulders drop to my chest
When I simply survey the beautiful September sunset
I am alive
And colored like this
The inner sky
Painted that same old orange and salmon
Which no palette can describe

How quickly the feeble minded forget
About the trials and struggles once offset
By those who have a servants heart

And in handling such people
Who slander you and tear your tedious work apart

The honest response to all of this
Is that this could indeed be considered an art

To kindly withhold with each remark
When you are parted from the comfort of their kind words
Which tend to play out on the stage

How quickly do the others forget
About everything, that is except for their own parts

Just know
It’s OK
If your heart’s a thousand colors
Because my eyes have a thousand of their own

Nobility knows no ends
Just as moonlight know no bounds
Besides the will of shadows
Which stretches out beneath
And lies in the most familiar heights
Drawn out upon the ground

Don't hate the snow
Or the cold of life
  A breath is still your choice to breathe
And if you wanted to (so badly)
Noone is stopping you (but you)
  Maybe you should leave

You are ember with less orange
You are tree bark true and brook trout at play
You are earthy as the hollow dell in the Catskills still
Turning as the waterways

You are ever moving, always slight
Looking back over those delicate shoulders of yours
To the footprints of me
And in the time spent therein not a day’s older

I don’t know her name
But I know what I see

Fumbling words in the night sky,
Like thunder in the broadest storm.
So you will go down in historic mind,
As not very bright.

Though the stroke of lightning might be me,
You were like thunder above the trees,
Loud, assertive and absolute,
But never available to be seen.

I'm glad such sound was not for me,
And that you passed like a summers night.
Because I have no need for rumbling voice,
Or an ominous noise devoid of light.

From brews, to baseball, to the Caesar salads we both like to eat

You were the potential just out of reach
The distant hope, the fear internalized
The not knowing when, or how, or if, we would ever meet

For once, for real, instead of on screens
Like the reflections in my galleries
I see you now in photos with him
Seeing both what is and could’ve been

Yet there you are by your father's side
Striding down the aisle inside, of another man’s church
Another man’s mind    

I just hope that he loves baseball like me
And that he can paint the corners outside
Almost perfectly, just like a Rembrandt

Though I missed you this time by a single stride
I never felt like the game began
Because we both looked down that distant road
And you, glanced back, at a map inscribed

On that, with this, I bid you goodbye, and wish you well until the 9th

Uncharted days
Ahead stretch out
Like a season known
With all its ends

And the scent of you
The smell itself
Is what keeps me back
From running therein

Essence, my cornerstone

Revisit me my dear revised, see only me.
For I am a glutton for your eyes.
It’s deep within you've always seen,
The subtleties I've stored inside.

Said and implied, I love the way,
You scroll through each embellished line.
Besotted we were supposed to be,
An author and his beloved rhyme.

Within your book and by your side,
Is where I remain and to page I bind.
Don't leave without such fond embrace,
Or forget where we first met in mind.

Stay here instead and share my bed,
Rehearse my prose and read my rhymes.
Aloud we sound, like your favorite song.
Would you say my name just one more time?

Like a far
From a distant star
I wanted you like a childhood wish
So badly that I couldn’t help but shine
And glow in the innocent, youthful, darkness

Those who are not just "I am"
Glow like stars in the night sky
And serve others
Even if they do not know it
As guides
In the absence of light
Is where they shine most bright

The stars know no cold
Like the lonely walking minds
Who know, what it means
To be more than just burning
Atmospheric dust yearning

I had a thought
the other day
(in the shower).

And we
(in our fooling around)
both slipped and fell
on a bar of soap
called reality.

Painfully fun it was.

Short wet hair in wild sheets
With seeping eyebrows bent with dew
Tired breath, warm chest
And memory foam
Soft cotton sleeves layered like carved stone
And quiet cold from windows still
Our heads beneath these pair of sills
With heaving breaths in unison bound
Our heartbeat drums the only sound
Amidst these vibrant warms around
Mere unity I'm pleased
Surrounds

Sing songs of the mountains alive and well

Whisper soundless secrets of nothing and wind

Reach out beyond the starry distant clouds

Grasp straws at the ocean rivers flowing in

Hold back the new dawn with a concrete hand

Lift rain from its fallen puddling end

Declare time that itself shouldn't exist and then

Doing all of these things would be easier still, than summoning the courage to speak with you again

It's the doubt which grows in the back of your mind
That you're on the wrong side of the road
That you're going to collide
But not with fate
But head on with an eternity of unkind

Side by side are different directions
Same road and minds