Mi
   ss
      ing
You C
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          M
            E
              S
In
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     E
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Tonight I'm drowning...

Can't change who I am,
but who I am changes.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

9/18/09

The Boy With the Birthmark on His Right Lower Calf

1/7/10 8:36 pm
The first boy that left me was my first love, he was the first boy who ever called me beautiful and he made me feel that way for about 3 and a half months until the distance became to much to bare, but we kept in touch for about 5 years so I guess you can say it never really ended because the pull of our hearts still happen to burn for each other every now and again, he is one for the books because he's never walked away from me he's stood by me through countless arguments, but I think we will always be connected. He taught me what it's like to fall in love unfortunately he didn't teach me how to stop falling face first onto cold hard gravel because now that he has someone new, I'm completely off the rails. I hope he comes back and saves me soon. He is the only boy I can't ever seem to get enough of, he is like a drug, the minute he touches me my veins fill with a substance of desire and my heart speeds up to about ten beats a minute and all this proceeds to happen within mire seconds of reconnecting I can't even begin to describe how it's been these past 5 years still being able to get that same rush around that boy--and only that boy. He is a drug I would gladly overdose on.

6/20/13

The Boy With the Cold Heart & the Four Glass Eyes

9/3/13 10:45 pm
The second boy that left me was no where near as beautiful as the first but he was one for deep talks and insecure walks. He told me what he hated about himself and how self-conscious he really was, that before he became "Mr. Player" he was a loser who always felt alone. His body was not beautiful he was destruction at its finest, his skin stretched and felt like scratching cold silver, in all respects he was quite a disgusting filth though at the time I found him to be made out of gold but I was dead wrong for he was the worse kind of killer-- a true sociopath if you ask me but I mean what do I know I'm a ****** right? Although the only thing he wanted was to toy with me and trick me into trusting the devil, granted I should have never gotten involved with him in the first place, because he truly tore me to shreds and he was still a baby so maybe that's why things ended badly between us, because even though I was naive then, he's still quite immature, I wish I could say he's changed but he hasn't.

12/6/13

The Boy Who Made Me Feel Alive Again

12/27/13 1:08 pm
The third boy that left me, well unlike the second boy he didn't do damage he actually did magic by gently outlining the curvature of my spine and liking the thoughts inside my head before we ever even came face to face, he knew me through words and kissed me like he held a secret between his lips. He didn't like books but he liked my thoughts on paper and he listened quite intently, so I guess that was enough. I noted little details when we walked home in the dark, like the fact that he lit up whenever I spoke and he always looked me dead in the eye, however neither of us had been murdered. Or the way he sounded when he told me about his life, or even the fact that he'd risk injury from oncoming traffic because of his fearless physique, maybe he was just trying to impress me but these are a few things that were beautiful  about this boy. But yet again, happiness in the form of Father Time only stands at my doorstep for a month or so because on the 27th on the coldest month of the year he walked out without even a proper goodbye.

*(vm)

As your soft words and smooth touch put me to sleep,
I longed for something better.

You gave me the world
And i left it to crumble on the floor.

I couldn't give you what you wanted
Because thinking about it made me sick.

Now your words are harsh and your touch non-existant.
Trying too many times has left us broken.

Never again.

My pen is my knife,
My words are my rage,
My blood is the ink,
Filling the page.

And you are the one I write of,
The one that makes me mad,
But instead of screaming and yelling,
I put it down in my notebook.

This world that we live in,
It fills us with hate.
Why can't we all get along?
Wouldn't that be great?

Let's forget about the wars,
Let's just make peace.
Why can't we do that?
I want all of this hatred to cease...

living day to day
working for our dreams, but why?
we end in the dirt

What was about 2 a. m. that always inspired her? Why did the sky have to be pitch dark for her to finally find her answer? Why couldn’t she simply control her mind at her own will? She wondered all of this as she lay in bed; her room was completely obscure, her computer screen the only source of light. She continued typing, the keyboard composing a uniform beat as she translated her abstract thoughts, regular habitants of her subconscious, in to words. Dark san serif characters that by themselves meant nothing but united could open worlds that have never been conceived before. She sighted pausing as she realized a word didn’t work at all, she racked her brains till she found a synonym that enabled the harmony of the prose to lighten. She smiled as she always did when she realized how writing was an intricate and bewildering process. How it took a life of its own and made her simply a tool to the construction of whatever was dying to get out of her limited human intellect.