dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

Read a poem with no words, whispers cleaned the page and the drums bounce like dart nights of rage.
But that's only the beat, the flute was hot on a cool day, together my hands I pray.
As I listen to this page I think calm thoughts and laughter from nights of happiness.
It's like a rap I can only imagine would be as beautiful as valley fresh, imagine a light inside poverty, a dark mind lost to ones self, like space.
That piano so touchy, the beat so techno like gundam.
Bring it back again so I can reminisce and bring it to future days, and then puff and pass it to the present so it can,
so it can lead the way.

Non existent smile under the distance of the dusty moon,
shook like a tremor before the sun's blues.
Wind passed by like a bus operator,
softened tension like droopy rain.

The road blisters pacifistic valleys.
It smothers her beautiful voice
Like static radio in deep water.

I watch them cry,

the ones I care for,

The ones who are not yet able to accept the dark after sunset.

They know not why they cry but I watch...

I can't wipe their tears, not with these white gloves.

For they do not understand, the dirt their tears carry.

I went to a place.
Dark and lit by city lights.
I let me heart rest, my mind...not up to the task,
I let the moon handle that.

The stadiums are sound  asleep,
the three rivers calm and live as always.
The fountain shines high tonight, well deserved appearence.
All I can hear is tires on construction roads.
I can hear the *** holes laugh from here.

It's sad really.
I will never see it as others do.
The burden of knowing the truth.

It was only the moon that revealed a pit of despair. An oxygen breath of no hope.
Lingered, murky the mist of solitude and deep cavern farewells.
The heart beats in tar blood.
Purist dark lips, sidekicked by eyes bullet coal black.
Piercing.
Chimes distant echoes of foot lite,
as present as the heavy still mist water.
A few strands, only a few...whistle lightly like amateur times.
It is not in this moment of Adrian Von Ziegler that she looks forward,
But in the precious dark seconds for why she looks back.

My mind. A four way intersection leading anywhere.
I, am my only roadblock.