She was like music,
and I longed to dance.

Her heart was the beat,
and I begged for the chance.

Her words were the vocals,
and I was put in a trance.

Her smile was the melody,
and I fell in love at first glance.

Like the whistling
sound of a steam train,
that was muffled
by the crowd of people.

Like an explosive sound
contained in a vacuum
waiting for the pressure to
create something that matters.

Like the sound of a bass guitar
playing a bass line,
drowned out by the sounds
and songs of people screaming.

Like a single drop of water
crashing against rocks,
following the flow of the
cascading waterfall.

Like the sound of a scream
in a vacuum,
like the sound of the words
"doesn't matter".

this isn't
a suicide note
i don't need
to write one

i already have
if you piece
together all
the words scattered
throughout poems
and journal entries
nobody reads and
that i rarely write

if you struggle
through first
and second drafts
you'll see the parts
of myself i don't talk
about and shadows
of people that i
cared about

if you did
all that
you would
begin to see
it's written in
between lyrics
and under
layers of scars

so this isn't
a suicide note
just a memo
that i've been
writing one for
my whole life.

the blissful kiss
of the truth
is so hard to miss.
I sit and I reminisce how divine
that moment tasted.
I ask for another drip...

the kiss, of what is,
the graceful wisp of
what is,
the golden ray beaming down.
the lighter blues hinted with
a spot light.
I sit and I remember it,
how it felt upon my lips
and how my heart ached for more.

my heart got a glimpse
of pure love, again.
I know at birth I witnessed it,
and at death, each moment in between
these, it seems to be here too.
well, I actually know it is.
I've kissed

the love of what is.
all of it.
what this is. its a pureness so few
can ignore, fewer tend
to barely hear a sound.
we are clouded by loud thoughts
and culture.
though its in every one of our
moments. this bliss

we miss it.
this fire lit in our bowels,
this passion for breath,
and ***,
and children,
and death.
we miss the nature of things
and its divine imprint on our
beings.
we miss kissing,
the faint blissfulness of what is.

Love goes for his guns,
            *But Apathy's too **** quick.

~

Fingers intertwined,
  she leads me
to the place
I shall never
      know fear,
   as I follow her
happily
   *to her heart