I hate when a song fades out.
That **** is ******* lazy.
It's the melodic equivalent
of committing suicide
without leaving a note.
What an ambiguous curiosity.
Just pick a ******* note and end it.

Sometimes we sing the blues
From a smokey backroom,
A humdrum, mirthless tune.
To sing along is to sing alone;
This, a synonymous broadcast.

In a dawning moment of awe,
You speak to relieve a silence.
Tactful words with such esteem.
Throwing caution to inconsistencies.

Everyone you meet is like a little drug.
Making you less like yourself.

To be a lucky strand,
Tangled, tethered to you
Cloaking such beauty,
To see the iris that glows
Behind tinted amber pools
Teeth that advise such clarity,
Wrapped in velvet creased lips

A protruding collar bone,
Embossing ethereal skin
With shoulders built
To harbor the weight of the world

Bronzed over flesh is spanning
Across fickle and cold bones
Constructing a case to hide
A sunken Aquarius heart
For as hollow as it is
To a lover's knock,
There is much to be
Uncovered and desired

Unspeakable curves will mold
To accentuate a searing lust
Justified by knowing what it means
To be held to you

Arms stretching to a locking embrace
Warm to touch
Every joint akin to the previous,
Dialing down to finger tips,
Breaking away in ten beautiful directions

And there lies a gateway to symmetry,
Almost unseen
Where the make of your mother's breath,
And the sum of your father's skill,
Entwine to beget a graceful badge

To where you constitute a conceivable home,
Should you so choose
A manger, suited to an heir

Here is where your dress flows
How many Michigan sunsets
Have broke light beneath the fabric
That adorns you
How many Chicago winds
Have flown that flag
Such comfort to be a cloth,
Draped in a silhouette
To an ornate fashion
The thousands of threads
Spun and stitched to adhere
A fixation of benevolent shape
It's astir to every notch

As you saunter past
With tenor and a managed confidence
Two feet with a steadfast passion
And misplaced direction

**** my conscious; bleeding thin as flesh.
I never dare to speak in desperate conditions.
Measured breaths and well timed semi-sweet slurs
aren't saying much at all and only lead to terms of
casuistry that slumber, unperturbed, between lips
ever unchanging from their lifeless arrangement.
I dream only to refresh my disenchanted view.
Nervous eye contact will bring me to my knees,
where I tend to contusions and seared wounds.
This is happiness at close. It sounds the same
as the attention-starved ***** calling for a
photo and then dying bit-by-bit at the flash.
I've overdrawn this only to scratch it out
and reassure myself I will acquiesce,
steadfast to the fashion of your diagnosis.
I was always second guessing the way this should go.
So when it boils down to nicotine soaked lungs,
just to burrow through this weekend, I'll be dead
on arrival from induced excuses, tailored to your
every solace.

Was there something more you hoped I'd be?
Me too.
Sorry, I tried to fight with what was left.
But it gorged away like a parasite.

Tell me I'm not quite strange.