"Stoner's Poem"

I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.

There are 1.5 million of them.
Words, that is, in English.

Only three matter:
I is a pronoun.
Love, a verb.
And you is more important
Than all the rest.

One for every five-hundred-thousand,
But you is one in a trillion.

She is too kind, I think, for mortal things,
Too gentle for the gusty ways of earth;
God gave to her a shy and silver mirth,
And made her soul as clear
And softly singing as an orchard spring’s
In sheltered hollows all the sunny year—
A spring that thru the leaning grass looks up
And holds all heaven in its clarid cup,
Mirror to holy meadows high and blue
With stars like drops of dew.

I love to think that never tears at night
Have made her eyes less bright;
That all her girlhood thru
Never a cry of love made over-tense
Her voice’s innocence;
That in her hands have lain,
Flowers beaten by the rain,
And little birds before they learned to sing
Drowned in the sudden ecstasy of spring.

I love to think that with a wistful wonder
She held her baby warm against her breast;
That never any fear awoke whereunder
She shuddered at her gift, or trembled lest
Thru the great doors of birth
Here to a windy earth
She lured from heaven a half-unwilling guest.

She caught and kept his first vague flickering smile,
The faint upleaping of his spirit’s fire;
And for a long sweet while
In her was all he asked of earth or heaven—
But in the end how far,
Past every shaken star,
Should leap at last that arrow-like desire,
His full-grown manhood’s keen
Ardor toward the unseen
Dark mystery beyond the Pleiads seven.
And in her heart she heard
His first dim-spoken word—
She only of them all could understand,
Flushing to feel at last
The silence over-past,
Thrilling as tho’ her hand had touched God’s hand.
But in the end how many words
Winged on a flight she could not follow,
Farther than skyward lark or swallow,
His lips should free to lands she never knew;
Braver than white sea-faring birds
With a fearless melody,
Flying over a shining sea,
A star-white song between the blue and blue.

Oh I have seen a lake as clear and fair
As it were molten air,
Lifting a lily upward to the sun.
How should the water know the glowing heart
That ever to the heaven lifts its fire,
A golden and unchangeable desire?
The water only knows
The faint and rosy glows
Of under-petals, opening apart.
Yet in the soul of earth,
Deep in the primal ground,
Its searching roots are wound,
And centuries have struggled toward its birth.
So, in the man who sings,
All of the voiceless horde
From the cold dawn of things
Have their reward;
All in whose pulses ran
Blood that is his at last,
From the first stooping man
Far in the winnowed past.
Out of the tumult of their love and mating
Each one created, seeing life was good—
Dumb, till at last the song that they were waiting
Breaks like brave April thru a wintry wood.

I left, and nothing was the same;
I came back, and everything was the same.

I've changed, but you haven't;
this thing between us hasn't changed,
or has it?

You remain transfixed on the games,
and even after months of silence,
you expect me to play;
and I get a thrill off of saying no,
which admittedly is my own way of playing back.

I don't know whether I love you or hate you more,
but homecoming also means coming home to that dichotomy,
to resisting urges and old patterns,
to hoping you've finally figured out where I'm at,
that your path has met mine,
that you've changed with time.

These roads feel the same but also
like they belong to a life I no longer know;
new tracks on new albums make the soundtrack for the drive,
and you attempt to wedge yourself amongst lyrics of redemption
and desire.

I need you to let me go
but want you to come with me;
I need to live the new life I've built
but am haunted by past fantasies;

when I come home,
it can't be to you,
and when I leave,
I'm leaving you too.

You will never know what true freedom is,
Till you have been caged by your own consciousness.

You are afraid
That you won't know
Until he takes you into his room
And shows you the lines
He carved into his thighs
With a kitchen knife and
He says he didn't want to die
The night he unzipped his veins
And cracked 12 pills wide open

You still are hoping he stops
But you know
He will not
So you go home and throw up
On your clothes
Just to take them off
Pretend its okay
And worry for another day