I hate to write poetry
Because every one I write is about you,
Because every thought is about you,
Because you make me sad.

I love to write poetry
Because every one I write is about you,
Because every thought is about you,
Because you made me happy.

But did you know that every hushed slip of lips,
Every lust swept memory,
Every clouded sky daydream
Is nothing but you?

And did you know that my car seat is unbearable to sit on,
"Time Machine" is no longer listened to,
In fact every song
Is tainted like rotting flesh.

Even this poem,
Yes,
Is undeniably about you.
And so will be the rest of them
In eons,
In millions of words,
In kilometers.


       I hate to write poetry
       Because I love you.

       I love to write poetry
       Because you loved me.

The couch cushions buckle,
They want our shoulders to touch just enough
To remind me of sweet smiles and our unconventional love.
And for a moment I believe that inanimate padding, beckoning for soft skin to linger just a moment too far gone.
And for our mouths to come just too close, with only inches in-between innocence and ******.
For I know he is my brother,
The one who wipes my tears,
And who supports my head on shoulders of infinite granite.
I love him enough to call him,
But not enough to call him my own.
But the cushions see no difference as the black hole springboard ***** the edges down and we move on the track toward each other.

There will always be days I need you like oxygen,
And without you breathing is pained.
Jealousy will always burn inside like hot stomach acid,
Eating the ribs, threatening my heart.

I wish to quell the jealousy, but never the need.

There is a place I recall
Where flowers of neon fluorescence dripped fragrances of deep passion,
The kind only received in love.
Letters were not ended with
Sincerely,
My deepest regards.
Christmas trees became disco *****,
Beckoning dances of slow satisfaction.

I seem to have lost the light.
My friends around me teeter toward it,
Yet no longer do I step forward once without two steps
Back.
So faint are the feelings of warmth.
I wish only for luminosity,
But perhaps tomorrow.

How can I still breathe?
How do I still walk?

I go home

Grab Mom's knife

Slit

Crying, I hide the remains of my mangled wrist

Days go by like nobody cares
Nobody talks
Nobody loves

My Mom is home

An audience

As I grab the knife, she screams
All breathing stops
I lay on the floor

My Mom picks up the phone

The blood is draining
My life is fading

As moments go by

The radio plays

"All You Need is Love"