The day I stopped writing
It was like going through the worst break up I've ever known
My mind goes blank
The pen won't flow
And I have this craving for the feeling of the paper against my skin
And the pencil pressed against it like a passionate kiss
The words pouring out effortlessly
Breathing passion into every inch of me
My heart misses it terribly
By my muse refuses to let us be together
So I ignore the blank pages
Begging me to come back
And hold my tea close to my heart
Because it is the only warmth it feels anymore

I jump through stars
                And
Moons-planets-universes
       They hold me
  Amongst the gods
Who play with humans
             Like
        They’re rag dolls
    They call me their pet
                                      And I feel happy

You said you wanted me
But those who crave the rose
Must live with the thorns

they say
"in this day and age
sane people don't memorize phone numbers anymore
the times are changing
don't you know?
it'll work out, it just needs time
things change with time
don't you know?"
and believe me, I tried
but I can only give myself to you
so many times
until it begins to feel futile
and unbearable
I'd call your number, thinking
maybe with hearing your voice
I'd be rebuked by reality
but with each call
I was ****** deeper
into the black hole I created
that is you
I never doubted your fidelity
but rather my own
how close I've come
to giving you up
and how often I did
scared to abide for even another second
because your hollow excuses didn't prevent
the pain that shadowed
every cancelled dinner date
every 'I owe you' and
every missed call
I don't know what it was
or where it came from
that awful urge that dialed
when I knew you were asleep
or out of town
but it didn't take long
for the string of words
"you've reached
the voice mailbox of
five five five zero one three eight
please leave your name and message
at the tone
or press pound
for more options"
to be etched into my brain
where the sound of your voice
used to be
it's kinda funny, isn't it?
how I never cared for
the sound of your voice
but I figured
if I heard it enough
I'd get used to it with time
funny how I hardly ever heard it at all
funny how I can't remember it now

I still miss you in my sleep
do you still hear my voice
when I'm not around?

Christmas is the time for heartbreaking Trócaire ads,
The time when decorations are put up by Dads.
Children are told stories of old.
Broken souls sit in the cold.
Big families arrange for big Christmas meals.
Dust cover young, chapped heels.
Santa and his reindeer fly across the sky.
When yet another hot season slowly passes by.

Christmas is a time when we all exchange gifts.
As just another angel lifts.
Choral chants assemble at front doors with sheets.
While the homeless continue to wander the streets.
The incandescence of lights fill our black,
When the darkest world still remains behind our back.
We receive the joys and the magic.
They only feel the tears and damage.

We have two worlds:
The First and the Third.

We live in the one with a Christmas..
But they live in the world that is still unheard.