I can't capture these emotions with words.

I can feel it.
There's something.
Or nothing. But it's there.
I can feel the hatred.
Or rather I can feel the hated.
I only feel the hated.

I was dumb and I was young and I thought I was ready.

I thought I wanted it.

Society told me, from day ONE
          That I did.
Nature told me, from day ONE
          That I did.
I convinced myself, from day ONE
          That I did.

And her body said
          "Marshall, you know you want it."
                    And so I did.


For months after that I hated myself.
I wanted to carve out those memories
         With any knife I could find.
I had betrayed myself
          And no sympathy or empathy could find me.
I had prepared myself for failure and executed it beautifully.
I had obeyed the hormones in my brain
          And the actors on TV.
I had become a product of society and evolution
          And I should have been happy
                    But. I. Wasn't.
My dreams became nightmares before
I could even fall asleep at night.

I wanted to forget.
But it's hard to forget one's own downfall.
One's own betrayal.

The scar tissue on my brain
Brought back all the pain,
No matter how hard I tried to fight,
I kept bringing myself back to that night.

                                                  I want to forget.

It always starts the same way.
"Hello it's been a-while."
And then half-formed regrets hidden under word layers,
wrapped up to
conceal, deceive.
A smile. Goodbye, farewell.

The ache doesn't come from parting.
Au Contraire dear one.
It comes from what-ifs, might-have-beens, should-haves;
and always the knowledge of walking away,
letting a part of you go,
a whisper on a breeze,
a prayer.

Sara not so plain and not so tall
Daydreaming in the shopping mall
As blond as a summer day
Speaking of herself in a peculiar way:

"I'm pretty, yes, but I wish to be better;
To be the admiration of a love letter."

But her beauty is the kind that lasts
And makes your heart beat especially fast.
Finland born but London found,
Lovely, sure, but greatness bound.

And the nights grow more tiresome,
as her chest beats a tattered drum.
Her mood too dreary for speckled eyes
that will dim if night blurs into sunrise.

"Sleep why do you run from me,
as my memories grow.
Eyelids, be a blanket,
And melatonin, a pillow."

Victoria Lucas in her head,
as the bell does ring until fed
by the words that sound soft to us
but are actually strong and thus
she is misunderstood-lips are red-
Like Greenwood inspired, kissed dread:
She can save herself before jarred,
Before feathered, before tarred.

And it is my faith that lets me know,
That her happiness will one day grow
Because Sara not so plain and not so tall
Is the strongest of them all