I know it's hard
The tears they flow
The pain it hurt
Nobody knows
You wanna quit
The winning towel
Just hold on it's the last hour.

Am i the literary element without
plot, theme, tone?
Or the protagonist killed before reaching his goal?
Am I the underlying meaning...
  or but a minor theme?  Narrative revolves
  around me, I digress.
No Shakespearean Romeo, my character.
And, my thesis,
may have several themes-

Plots never progress beyond what
I with such scant success
imply with my heart...and it never lies.

I am the running child.
Running. Always running far from love,
Far from emotion or attachment
Running till I could self-destruct.

Until I met you.

I never considered meeting you would save my soul.
That one moment with you could make me so euphoric,
That not even hell on earth could drag me down.

And believe me, I have come to know hell.
I stare at the devil in every empty bottle,
and at the end of every cigarette.

Its almost surrealism: Like a dream left unfulfilled for years,
Finally shown with focus and careful attention.
Like the aging of time pieces left in the sand
I patiently stare past the brass and tarnish
And see you as you really are.

All those years ago, I fell.
I defied my own heart that told me not to love -- and I did.
But fear got the better at the end and I lived up to my title of running child.
Always running from safety and stability
Into the cold abyss, leaving you stranded in my wake.

But you still waited.
Until I ran back to you.

And who could have guessed that you would bring rest
To my porcelain heart and calloused soles
Though sometimes I want to run;
Your love seems to do wonders, like an anchor.
Making me realize I should have come home to you
Long before now.

My mother once told me
“You shouldn’t make homes out of human beings.”
but I found you
with a vacant heart
among cold hands
and I knew right then that I wanted
to kiss you with a thousand life long promises,
to shout out to the rooftops
“come live in my heart
and pay no rent”.

You have made your home in me,
nestled tightly between the spaces
of the left side of my ribcage.
I hope I have proved myself a rebel to my mother,
And that I also live in the spaces of yours.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.

it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene

need;it’s funny.  They will all be dead

knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.

It is a funny,thing.  And you will be

and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed ****** with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better

than me will you like the rain’s face and

the rich improbable hands of the Wind)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands