I guess, in the end, we all just have to accept that the universe is weird and never on anyone's side; that everybody sees things differently and that things are never going to be how we imagined or how we want them to be. If they are how we want them to be, they're probably better than we ever imagined. When they're not it ***** and is heartbreaking. It is for me anyway, but that's the beauty of it. It probably isn't for somebody else. Jealousy and nostalgia are beautifully ugly creatures. Goodnight.

The hills are alive
with the sound of silence.
They echo back towards
deafened ears and
blinded hearts.

TImeless winds begin to change,
combusting all that's within range,
stripping trees from land,
and tearing souls from man.

So plug your ears
and close your eyes,
for here is where
the spirit dies.

He woke up because he dreamt he was falling off of a cliff;

he stopped dreaming of falling

and started living to jump.

Oh the nonsense, oh the foolishness,
Of being alone.
Loneliness is a choice right?
So why do I choose,
To roam alone?
Allow me to explicate…..

There is no need to create
Another being
Only for the feeling
Of a friend

But I’ve learn that as long as I have my daily bread
I’ll learn to survive
And hopefully thrive
For I won’t have the distraction
Of watching my actions
In order to not undo any relation.

I rather pursue a written creation
Than another friendship just for the sensation

Romancing the end of the world
We danced in suits outside,
Underneath the blue night sky
The stars and moon collide

"The world is ending," I whispered
"And we are going to die."
"I know," you said
"So let's keep dancing - be mine until we die."

People were crying and screaming
In fear for their lives
Then they saw us slowly dancing
And didn't care if they survived.

First two became four, then twenty more
Dancers joined our side
Until the whole world started dancing
Under the falling sky.

The stars and the moon began to fall
Burning us with no surprise
We kept on dancing until the end
We had never felt so alive.

Her blanket of curls drape lightly around her face
as she carelessly handles a cigarette between
red-stained lips that grip
white and tan paper.

A flick of a flame grazes the tip, smoldering incandescence
highlights her mouth, a shade of sun-burnt orange;
the tiny lit secret sits at the ridge.

Without hesitation, she takes one long drag
and emits a lifetime of fear, worry, joy, and love
that settles into the nightlife. The escaping smoke coils
into the air, leaving a soft haze above her head.

She knows who she is,
and she knows where she is going, something
the man next to her at the bus stop has not quite figured out.

Neon red brake lights play off her face
as she glances towards him. Her wide eyes burn with intent,
jewels of sapphire blue. The huffing bus makes its presence known,
and he holds out a hand to motion for her to go first. She smiles,

and they slide into the light.

“It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”

William Garretson was the gardener of 10050 Cielo Drive, in Los Angeles, a summer house rented by Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate. He lived in the guest house on the property. On August 9th, 1969, members of the Manson family visited the residence and brutally murdered all the inhabitants, as well as Garretson’s friend Steve Parent. Garretson claims he had no knowledge of the murders that night. He is the only survivor of the Tate Murders.

your screams sounded
like fiberglass breaking
an almost impossible noise
like a hemorrhage at midnight
i was walking through the garden
and i swear
i heard the neat click
when he severed the phone line
if only i had known

i have thought up one hundred scenarios
in which i saved your life
but there is only one
when i don't
and every night i try to justify this reality
because i could have sworn
the sound of their boots
on the steel fence
was the telephone
ringing

when they saw the headlights
swerve over the lawn
steve was as good as dead
shattered like a lightbulb
under pressure
four shots pressed into his forehead
a candid bullet kissed him faceless
his absence was
a tell tale piquancy of slaughter
i lay in bed that night
and turned my face to the wall
when i heard the screams

tell me i reek coward
say the raw red skin of my knuckles
shaved away from the foundation of my raised veins
as i sat through another police interrogation
are nothing compared to the red poppy
that blossomed in the center of his chest
call me callous
but i will never forgive myself
for trimming the flowers
that sat innocent on the coffee table
in the middle of a mass grave
all i can say is
i was just the gardener

i found her
blooming on the living room floor
the baby cut
weeping from her umbilical cord
still attached to mother and father
by a rope traveling from neck to neck
thorny slices of fetal skin
peppering the carpet
blood sprays still wet
were soaking into the wooden door
sadism comes in many
limp limbed contortions
but only one color
and i saw *HIS smile
carved in the cavity
of her stomach
i swear to god
i wish i could say
i didn't see it coming

i found the severed tendons
of his fingers
suspended in the eerie light
of the swimming pool
pruned like overripe plums
the remnants of his face
scattered across the driveway
like taraxacum seeds
their bodies all
hanging like wilted stems
broken xylems hinged to sepals
by threads of sap
running down uprooted ligaments
there is not enough therapy in this world
to cure the silence in the garden
upon the aftermath of execution

the shapes of murders' footprints
left raised beds in my shoulder blades
manure smeared ***** across my lips
every flower i have ever planted since
has languished in the smell of your corpses
melded into the callouses
of my finger tips
i am just the gardener
and i am all broken anthers
petals shriveled, toxic
call me a survivor
but there is blood inside my filaments