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Daniel Regan Feb 2015
Can I lay next to you when we have a rainy day?

Can I say all my neglected words that I never got to say?

Can I hold your gentle hands in the way I always wished?

Can I tell you there was never a second that you were not deeply missed?

Can I tell you that the light today seems to hit your face just right?

Can I tell you that your smile glimmers more radiant than the stars at night?

Can I tell you of the kiss that I’m struggling to keep from you?

Can I tell you it’s not the only thing I never wanted held from you?

Can I tell you of my past regrets that hold me back from life?

Can I tell you that your unobtainable love is my greatest source of strife?

Can I let my emotions get the best of me without a judgment passed?

Can I step away from this tattered guise and show you everything I've masked?

Can I tell you of a time when you were simply enough?

Can I tell you that I loved you more than how our lives are tough?

Can I tell you that I loved you more than how our futures will be rough?

Can I tell you that I’d love you more than our accomplishments and stuff?

Can I tell you that I’d love you more than our life would get tough?

Can I tell you that I’d love you more that our future would be rough?

Can I pull you close with all my might and kiss your lips once more?

Can I hold you in my arms again and say it’s you that I adore?

Can I be the person you've always wanted while being faithful to my core?

Or will I forever be held at this distance and afraid to open that door?

Or will I finally be free of my in capabilities to see our souls finally soar?
Daniel Regan Sep 2014
It’s that rough patch, not to be confused with that soft grass. Where its greener on the other side they say. So I put that clichéd line on replay, as my mind wonders away from its looped track and I find my soul drawn to this one rough patch. The one where the rain forgot to fall, though my depression looms like clouds ready to burst at its red taped seems. Ready to break free and quench the forsaken dreams, of those entangled in its constricting theme and the lack of what should motivate them to break free from this quilted piece of the so called American Dream. But this feathered ideology has just as much rooted truth as the forsaken grass. Ripped from the ground and held up by the masses, YOU think this drought will force the skies to fall to its knees and weep? You think my rain dance of soft spoken discipline and firm handed compassion is enough for Noah to build the ark? Send them in two by two with their quilted grass and torn seams. Bound in red tape, tax payer hate, and a world on their shoulders that’s now forced to their plates. Where chipped out bricks and clothes with rips meet the checkered grasses and one way trips down potholed streets. Where ‘broke’ is the culture, ‘cracked’ is the future, and ‘shattered’ is a person’s understanding of their purpose. Built on burnt out grass, rusted out fences, and busted out dreams. Of NBA stardom and NFL leagues. Only to be replaced with NBA sneakers and NFL ****. But that grass is green, don’t get me wrong. There’s that other side that we all try to focus on. Where positivity pushes mowers and helps plant seed, were people are built up like stalks using Jacks magic beans. Only to face the giants of our new reality, as these 12 year old doors close with a bells final ring. Forced in the world full of giant inequity, but that nice summer breeze always put me at easy. As I tie up the silver lining of my last pair of torn up jeans. Squinting from the light reflecting off these sky scrapping beams, of that ‘pulled up by my own boot straps’ ideology. That keeps on ripping up grass in the place of their concreted schemes. A foundation built on an inherited legacy of rolled up cotton sleeves. Only to be replaces with shiny new cuffs, Italian fitted fiends, and a lack a communal understanding. For those without an equitable ground to plant their dirt stained feet. Whose souls lack the foundation of an inherited concrete. Whose footsteps find only patches with the occasional green grass, stemming from the rain’s 7-3 schedule that never seems to last. Void of enough time for their neglected patches to be sown, for their budding grasses to be grown, and misguided shoes to be souled. But the inherited rain continues to fall and some grasses remain green, enough to keep the majority screened to this water tower of inequality. Or at least content as their grasses get wet, cultivated by willful ignorance and an acquired colorblind sense. A sense of understanding as we judge our lawns the same. Remembering our own discoloration as our colorblind eyes takes aim. To pelt our vibrant lawn with the care it so desperately needs, making sure to fill in the spots where our grasses meet our weeds. Forgetting that our feet once stood in a plot of browned out patches, as we stand within the greener side not to be confused with the softer grasses.
Daniel Regan May 2014
Oh sweet love, why do you hide in the shadows of my own self-doubt? Why do you torment me with images of perfection and perseverance when the human conditions stands in contradiction of cinematic flawlessness? How do I look beyond your digital providence when your organic counterpart lacks your provocative nature?
I follow storyline after storyline of heartache and sorrow as my heart fills with every beating note of your symphony of wishful yearning and lust. Oh you are my downfall love. You are my pain. You are all I have to lose and gain when the walls of my own sanity come crumbling down around me.
Love, your bipolar benevolence holds me up and throws me down. I look to the rain for sympathy but find the same disconnect I have with love as it has with the ocean. Your fickle grasp on my nights force me into days of ungodly self-loathing and pity towards my own self-awareness.
How I wish the elixir of forgotten memories and combustion of nullified senses were enough to guide me towards a lifetime of simplicity. But their medicinal and destructive nature hold only a reminder of my own impatience and impotence towards love. Numbing waves of philosophical hypocrisy banging against my brain in the hopes their square pegs and round holes can someday work out a solution to this ever-unsolvable problem.
Why can I not find you love? Why can I not find your ever-elusive shades of grey in the happiness of the common placed world? Why can I not find solace in your warm embrace and southing whispers of reassurance throughout my trying days and nights? Why do I look to you for understanding when it is the very thing I lack when chasing you?
Love, sweet love, I am tired. My boyish ambitions and mature desires are at war with one another. They strip me of sleep and forge images of my dwindling past and uncertain present. Merging forgotten losses and that which I crave in the present, only to show me how much I lack in controlling of my passions. You, my sweet love, are going to be my destruction.
You, my sweet love, are going to be my demise and my rebirth. Hope has no fullness or lessness in this illogical conundrum that has my mind spinning. You have no control over your influence and yet, influence my decisions beyond the scope of my understanding.
Love, my treacherous friend, how can you be unaware of your unpredictable power and remain a foreseeable authority over me?
Daniel Regan Apr 2014
aaabbbcccdddeeevery word, thought, feeling made simple by those and that which create it fffggghhhow am I suppose to find the bigger picture in this world of I SPY, CSI, and magnified screens, text, and images iiijjjkkklllet me suppose we do it without conscious regard for the bigger picture, but I cannot believe that when we scrutinize each other to the point of minimizing each other’s soul, purpose, and individuality mmmnnnooopppqqquite the notion when you examine the world around us and its ever outward expansion by mans technology, freethinking mind, and unquenchable reach rrrssstttuuuvvvery ironic as I focus on the letters that give me inspiration yet cling to the words that give voice to my every fleeting thought wwwxxxyyyzzzero chance that my message finds a bigger paper, forum, or world for the letters that make them up do not scream loud enough for the worlds magnifying glass to hear zzzyyyxxxwwwith ever black to white click of thought it becomes analyzed by the grammatically correct, socially adept, and economically sept vvvuuutttsssrrreveling itself in form, purpose, and motivation as my numbers climb with the amount of eyes that these words find qqqpppooonnnmmmy own ego lost in a numbers game and battle of the words, played against my own self doubt and an ever changing world lllkkkjjjiiilluminated by an audience whose thoughts are much like my own, who play under the same lights and are surrounded by the same dome hhhgggffforever screaming in black and white as the world spins in color, reveled in pictures but structured in letters and numbers eeedddcccbbbaaalone we must all feel as we stare at the big picture and the underlining letters, while our life moves beyond the sight of our glass
Daniel Regan Mar 2014
Stand firm young explorer, our reality is before your eyes. The path of least resistance comes and goes with the reading of the signs. Do not reach beyond their grasp dear astronaut, for you can only hold what you must. And your disinclined stance may start to sway, towards a book of spiritual trust. A compass of lost translation, which has been tattered by the evolution of our time. Sown together by imperfect hands and tongues, of the righteously divine.  Or instead you stumble towards numbered texts and the collection of mans thoughts. Classified, organized, and defined in complex logical knots. A thorn bush of intricate perceptions of our multifaceted human condition, subjected to nothing more than our screaming birth and our timely decomposition. But fear not my naive trekker, for the decision is yours to hold. Either with nail in hand or the hammer made ready, may your heart be ever so bold. And though the philosophical plates of these worlds seem to diverge from once connected fates, the heavens you come to find as a result may be behind different gates. Only you hold the key to open your ever changing mind, one carved by humble carpenter hand or molded by mankind. So step lively youthful sailor for the winds are at your back, and the house from which you build your truth comes of brick or with cross-bared plaque. Worry not of your inaction little voyager, for the world will not react. The world remains in constant motion, and will force you to interact. Whether several days of creation must pass or a bang of creative juice, it is you who must chose to dive in the water or walk above man’s made truth. So good luck my inexperienced hiker as the waves of decision roll in. May the solace you find in the choices you make be without regrettable sin. I pray the stars you look to at night point you toward your goal, and that you find a balanced understanding of the earth and your spiritual soul.
Daniel Regan Mar 2014
Oh your face it does haunt me like all cliché lines do. Circling in my thought process as they find paper in reluctance but utter truth.  Destine as is the rain drop is fated to find the earth. And although its home is made for a short while, its energy is forever lost to the world around. Oh how I wish to be that rain drop. To carry weight and energy into everything I touch though my boundaries remain limitless. Unaware if I am to turn into a soaked sweater, a splash on a running shoe, a man’s’ blinding annoyance, or just another drop in the ocean. And though my clichés may never change the weather, I am praying that you and I might end up together. Hoping that my energy remains limitless and finds sought after boundary in your presence. Hoping to be a damp spot on your sweater is my comforting relief from the separation of the swirly storm I’m in and your forever distant shore. But I am a lowly drop and you sweater holds no warmth for me as our once connected past becomes nothing more than flooding memories now. Passing by as did the running shoe in puddled ground. Flung from disapproving eye and forever to remain amongst the waves of the unforgiving ocean. Prayer holds no weight here. Hope as important as the sand we all overlook and pass by without second glance. And though my present tides throw salt in past wounds, I look to the horizon in search of your coast. I look to the sky for my dove holding an olive branch and the sun to elevate me from my watery prison. With the belief that as I move closer to heaven, I move closer to you.
Daniel Regan Feb 2014
I am so miserably unhappy and i just want to be heard. I want more then your sympathy and a compassionate word. I want more then a sorry and a moment of your time. I want more then 'you'll be ok' and a few words that rhyme. I want more then a kiss in a sentimental place. Found just on my forehead, on the edge of my face. I want more then the struggle and to turn it all around. And I want more then your perspective on positivity and where its all found. Or when, or by whom, or how it comes to be. I've had enough of your words of wisdom and ideology. I want more then a quick fix from liquid memory loss. And I want more then a women's sheets who need a good toss. I need more then a hand and a shoulder to cry on. I need more then a day off and the coming of a new dawn. I need more then a far run or a weight to be lifted. I need more then a career change or my life to be shifted. I need more then you and I need more then me. I need more then I hold and more then I see. I need need more then i know so I can understand. Whether the life that I lead is one that I truly command.
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