It's in these small moments
When you least expect it.
A burst of gratitude
For all that you haven't.
And inversely,
All that you do -
So have my thanks
For being you.
My friends
Are there
When I'm
Not here.

I crave a voice other than mine -
It consumes me in pleasant conversation ,
But then slowly moves into darker realms

Dispelled by a shake of the head.

I crave a voice other than mine -
Mine is not a voice I am capable of following blindly,
Or trusting with the whole of my heart

As it seeks to destroy the very thing I hold dear.

As it seeks to exploit my single, greatest fear.

As it seeks to drown myself in my own silent shouts and the grabbing of my hair.

I crave a voice other than mine -

But they are all asleep.

I wonder how I'm still standing.
I wonder when my head will stop pulsing.
I wonder if I'm about to fall.
I wonder if I'm only coping.

Punch after punch,
Blow after blow,
I **** it in and make it my own.
Breath in, breath out,
I'll get through this by hoping,
I still wonder if I'm only coping.

Pick up your feet!
Move, stride!
In polished black shoes you will come out alive!
Pick up your head!
Smile, grin!
Your uniform donned you will surely win!
Pick up your gun!
Load, aim!
You are ready to own this painful game!
A soldier strides forth, his demons groping,
He wonders if he's only coping.

The battle rages,
A beacon of light shining,
He knows he will live.

On a convoy, coming home -
My place that emanates love.
Tired, weary, beaten, torn -
But my spirits soar above.
A sigh of relief escapes -
My mouth turns upwards, doting.
Stepping through the doorway warm -
I know I'm not just coping.

He wore a coat from the day he stepped
Out from his home now forgotten and lost,
With patches and pockets and rips or
Tears scattered 'round a cloak journey tossed.

He wore a coat from the day he stepped
Out to remove now himself from his sheath,
He pondered the skin under now bare
**** and uncovered the monster beneath.

At times I burn orange,
Hints of yellow, red -
A hearth fire,
Warm,
Protective,
Fed.

At times I burn a green,
Hints of purple, red -
A cursed fire,
Cold,
Negligent,
Dead.

I sit here against my screen, my words flowing like
the blood in my alcohol inflated veins,
My mind muddled, yet flowing, open, and at ease.
I sit here listening to voices, singing. And I miss you all.
I would like to say that it consumes me, that it occupies my every step. I would like to think that it would make me human.
But it is not that.
It is a dull aching in my stomach. That small nagging in my gut that reminds me that while I am not truly alone,
I sure as hell feel it.
My friends,
I would love to raise a glass, smile, and thank you all for everything, sitting here shirtless and tired in my desk chair.
But that would be talking to the two million pixels on my screen, and not you.
My friends,
You help me walk. You help me jump.
You let me fly.
My friends,
I've said this before, and
My friends,
I will say it a thousand more times, because I cannot say it enough, and
My friends,
I thank you.

Summer turns to winter,
And cold conquers all.
In solitude I stand,
Then shiver, then fall.

But suddenly, a breeze,
A spring thaw come soon.
Dancing, sometimes touching,
She swirls and sings a tune.

Crimson gal(e) pulling inwards,
To which crimson hearts betray.
She is my god of the gaps,
And as wind, she blows away.

Setting sun and color dims
Some park and bench from ancient years
Some thousand heads have rested there
On rotted wood and metal.

Rising moon and darkness falls
The withered cane clicks on the walk
The empty purse a ticking clock
'Til tired eyes shut finite.

Countless stars and total night
Her wrinkled soul like body maimed
Her tattooed wrist whose digits named
One jilted grain of sand - sleeps.

I stand facing the tree,
Its bark still bearing the marks of my fist from
One year ago.

I stand facing the tree,
My fists still bearing the scars of its bark from
One year ago.

I stand facing the tree,
My fingers curl and clench, my gaze fixated -
One year ago
The was no one standing in my way.

There are songs about love
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
When our emotions clash and rage and burn
Or simply flutter about
In Beautiful Chaos.

But what to do with doubt?
There are no songs about lacking.
Stepping each step, knowing that irrationality
Hides in every corner.
You are worried for yourself.
You ask yourself "Will I?"
You ask yourself "Why Not?"
You ask yourself all,
But answer none.

Our minds are funny that way.
We can have full knowledge that we worry
About things that are pointless.
Things so unlikely that the morbid hilarity of our consideration
Of the possibilities of such things
Should be enough to stop us from believing them.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
A wise man once said
“Music is there for when words fail us.”
But I lack burning emotions.
And thus I lack music.
And naught but words remain.

There are songs about love,
And songs about it's loss.
But there are no songs of
The worry of
Never finding it.

It's amazing how
Two simple words
Can lift weights unimaginable.

Bus lines, known and missed.
Streetlights, gleaming, brisk.
Cars showing signs of movement,
And never stopping.
Their lights unblinking as they move straight,
Across the highway, the crisscrossing pathway
That when looked at within these moments,
These moments of semiperfect feelings and emotions.
The streets and cars and lights and buses all feel
Right.
They engulf me.
Their metaphorical resonance echoes across the chambers of my chest.
They move into the once perceived place where all emotions call home.
The thoughts settle. I allow the words to flow out from inside of me and into my my thumbs as they pound away, silently, on my keyboard.
My heart is a city.
It pulses.
It beats.
I am alive.
I am Bright. Tall. Proud.
Content.
Me.

Trust is a mirror
That I ask you to hold
With a steady hand
Lest you drop it.

There are a few who
I trust to show my face
To whom it matters
Such as myself.

Trust is a mirror
That I myself have held
With a steady hand
Before it dropped.

It sits in my stomach / Resting, waiting.
Unsolved, / But not unwarranted.
A problem.

It stirs / it bristles as it sits up and stretches.
Yawning / pandiculating.
It's awake.
\
It begins to gnaw.
Eating you alive from the inside.
Encompassing the whole of your mind.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
You can't.
You run.
You can't.
You hide.
You can't.
You breath.
You can't.
You can't.
You can't.
It is there.
It lives on.
It cannot die.
It thrives.
It grins.
You collapse.
It wins.

My pen poised above the page,
I feel the need to write.
But my thoughts and feelings I cannot fathom
And find words that feel right.

I'll ask you to imagine,
The words not written here.
Look for them between the lines I draw,
In the spaces ever bare.

You may find this ironic,
As your eyes gently roam.
While they examine each and every word,
Of this unwritten poem.

Sitting in my chair,
Staring out my window,
As drops of rain fall outside.
I see you standing there,
Water pouring, drenching tears.
I want to give you my umbrella,
But I am locked inside.

"A new year, with new beginnings"-
A phrase that all do say.
"I'll change myself, and become different!
Today's a brand new day!"
But there's one question that I ask,
An answer which I crave -
Should last year be deleted?
Are you sure you want to save?

I need a mattress,
An object to fall on.
Something to cradle me
As I drift off to sleep.

I need a mattress,
An object to sleep on.
Something to comfort me
As I fitfully dream.

I need a mattress -
But, alas,
I dream -

I fear.

If only I didn't fear of crushing it
Under it's weight
As well as my own.

I want a mattress.