I think I'm going to blow away
And see what happens as the moss turns into trees.

I think I'm going to run away
And watch each river incandescently freeze.

But when the time comes to accept the end of my mobility,
I will tilt back and wonder about all the other inbetweens.

I took fifty steps backwards when I decided to read the book I wrote you today.
You know, the ******* fifty page story of our love?
The one that I spent three months on?
The one that I poured my heart and soul into?
The one I gave to you on our one-year anniversary, the first of "many more"?
Ya, it ******* killed me to remember all the good things I forgot on purpose.
And then I remembered that I loved you since day zero, and then I got to thinking how I'll love you till the birds stop singing.
I managed to stop reading at page 3,
But up until that point was needles to my eyes, daggers to my heart, razor blades to my soul.
I managed to stop reading at page 3,
But tomorrow may bring page 4.

This was all after I looked at the pictures of your graduation day.
Remember I couldn't stop crying?
Remember how every day since then I haven't stopped crying, dying, trying to forget all the **** you left piled up in front of me to climb over, holding my breath and slipping.
It's become an downward uphill battle,
Because every step I progress you push me down twice with an invisible hand of dishonesty.

Something stopped my finger from clicking on the folder of prom pictures.
The one where we kissed always brought tears to my eyes,
But now I'm crying for different reasons.
When I look at you in still candid shots all the other colors fade into the photograph and my eyes dilate farther into the sea of "used to be".
I'm tired of my grey world without you.
I want something to make the world what I had before,
Before you piled the **** and left me to rot,
I want all of that,
But I want none of it.
And then I try to tell myself "no, *******" but you know it never works.
It never will,
Because then I start to think about being naked with you,
And the electric feeling that your bare chest against my stomach gave me,
And how your fingers tangled in my hair drilled me deep inside of you,
So deep,
So deep I need surgery for removal.
But any successful operation would never end in life.

For all the words good about you I've written, I can match them all for bad.
But you know it doesn't matter,
Because here I come climbing over your **** pile,
Because maybe
I still have a chance with you.
Maybe if I wade through the **** I'll reach you someday.
Or maybe it's going to keep growing in height and diameter till it reaches and pollutes even Heaven above.
And then what hope is there to ever live a life without you?
Because Heaven is the only possible place,
Since I know you'll never make it there.

Am I doing this right?
Do we punctuate in slow motion or should we scream with no meaning behind crystal words?
And how do we define good from great?
If we dream it, can we make it?
If we want it, can we get it?
Do my rhymes make ripples or meaningless disturbances?
And will these ripples even cause waves? Will the motion become an ocean?
To prove yourself is to move mountains, yet mountains come by so infrequently today.

We possess the story telling wiseman within us all.
He belly laughs and wonders at tales of great.
The music he produces out of his fingertips flow seamlessly within the words of old.
And we wish to tell the novels inside of us yet we draw into each other like hibernation,
And we ignore the signals written in front of us.
Forever shading grey the power of our thoughts and feelings,
Wiping our faces clean of originality.

Personally, I need the success I deserve.
There's something inside that pushes the letters through my hands onto paper.
The drive courses like hot maple syrup,
Accelerating the existing liquids,
Pushing my limits to get what I want.
I want to prove I have to do this,
But I was always caught wondering if these words I give were prescribed or abused under the table of lesser men.
There will always be the greedy, the skeptical who question my right, who question my point of writing these rhymes.
But I must keep going,
Or these words will raisin,
Shriveled and wasted in graves and ashes.

I want to free fall into the Mariana Trench.
I want to watch the world become darker and darker till light is not in the dictionary.
Forms of life will become less distinguishable with every meter.
Motel rooms and apartments litter the crevice's walls-"low" income housing-
Soup kitchens begin to occur less frequently-
Replacing them are drug houses and grimy gas stations with metal bars for windows.
Every creature notices my existence.
They dart their eyes just too much,
And I know they suspect that I came here to sleep. To be at peace with myself again.
To watch them, to hear them, to wander them.
In my mind, seconds melt like ice cream cones in July.
Minutes cut through the silence unnoticeably.
Time slips underneath me as the rug is pulled out from my feet and over my eyes,
And it covers my mind.
I remember nothing of past events,
They told me to leave all behind.


As the day grows darker into nothing but here and now,
My skin turns blue. I am the ocean in this divide of magnetic silence.
I am the fish who struggle to find meaning for themselves.
I am time which does not exist here.
I am the water whose stagnancy sinks me deeper into earth and beings of past eons.
My hair becomes the nutrients, the seaweed and algae that provide for the citizens of this primitive paradise.
My eyes are now seashells which house these forgotten creatures.
My arms stretch out towards surface and harden into coral shoots, but my mind is rooted into sea floor basalt and sand.
I will never leave.


                   An eel approaches me.

He welcomes me with a warm embrace too far up my body.
Not an under-the-arms hug,
A beating, lively hug around the neck.
It takes my breath away,
And so I cannot help but gasp with excitement,

And I find my peace.

Have you ever watched a face before you drip into itself? Imploding in slow motion,
Melting inside into darkness?
And watch each drop of liquid flesh melt the day away.
And the waxy ooze pools in staggering stalagmites, gathering till no longer can the mountain continue to heighten.
They seem to be tears,
But how can they be such things with no emotion inside?


Aren't we all just dolls?
Suspended until the candle gets too close?
Placed here to fill a space, fill a hole and make it "whole"?

Someday I want to know if I'm made of plastic, or if I'm real.
But for now, I know the answer.