An old fairy-tale book molders silently
in a cardboard box, in my airless attic.
A coat of dust has stolen its grandeur,
the pages are dog-eared from generations
of small, sticky fingers.

Inside, a castle succumbs
to ten years of neglect.
The knights slip into apathy,
leave their armor unpolished,
and start to ponder
a change of career.
An empty-headed princess
languishes in her tower
among yellowed love letters,
with no hope of the rescue
promised to her
in twenty pages or less.

There isn't anyone left
to fight the dragons, nobody wants
to believe in them anymore.
The children averted their eyes,
and slowly built up
each palisade guarding
the magic left in their heads.

I have no tolerance
for the music you listen to.
Slow and heavy,
I worry that maybe
it might make me feel something.

I wear my scars on my sleeve,
far away from my heart.
I give them no introduction, and in return,
hardly anyone comments.
Once, I was told that such marks are
something to hide
with neatly pressed skirts,
long sleeves, and dim lighting.
For some time, I made an effort,
then lost the shame-filled motivation.
They are rose-pink, criss-crossing,
haphazard badges of a life
lived free of convention,
every one a road sign that tells
just how far I've come-
beautiful if solemn reminders
of a former self.
They are small, puckered triumphs,
things to admire if only for their stability:
They do not grow in number.
I love their gaping mouths,
their age and soft surrender.
Infrequently, I examine each scar
with all the care and concentration
of a cynic in wonderland.
My fingers land on them like butterflies,
any pain has long since faded.

I am just waiting for something
anything
to leap out from behind me and say,
you.
my darling, beaten-blue.
you with the bitter taste,
you with the b-sides
you with the photographs, too.
come with me, out of this
                                          bruised and terrible
                                                                         you.

Former lover,
Indulge me this anguished plea,
prefaced by this confession:
You are the first and final piece of my soul.
My lungs inhale air and exhale a prayer;
A request to the divine forces that you remain whole,
That no shred of your perfect self is stripped away,
That the only thing that changes is how you perceive me.
That whatever trespass or gaff on my part is ripped from memory
That you hold even half of the opinion I hold of you.
Before you carry out that box
Of personal effects,
Of joyous memories,
Of melancholy epiphanies,
Of sensuous encounters,
Of laughs,
Of tears,
And all the material and otherwise classified fragments of this broken romance,
Realize that I am a man in love with you,
A creature on the brink of the chaotic crumble of his being,
As the pillars of love gone would destroy the Parthenon.

Former lover,
Before your foot steps have finished echoing against my walls,
Please heed the request of an explanation.
Please grace this dead love with the dignity of reason,
As opposed to leaving it in a cloud of an enigma,
Abandoned like a fish on a dock, left to slowly suffocate.
Abide this request as you would a dying man,
As you are doing little more than killing me.

Former lover,
Letting you go will be like releasing a tightened vice,
As my love for you is as a part of my being as my heart.
Saying our last goodbyes,
Sharing that final kiss that did little more than indulge me
In wistful fantasies of an inevitable reunion,
Consummated with regret, love, and reconciled with intimacy.
Your goodbye left strings,
Like a strand of saliva still connecting our lips even as you parted them.

Former lover,
You left the door open when you walked through it.
How could you be so cruel?

If I could write a poem about you I
would make all the verses rhyme.
I would always make you and I so
close we were almost
One
We have been too far too long

If I could write a tune about you
I would sing it
I couldn’t do it justice but it would be
a beautiful ballad
About the way you’re beautiful when
you dance with the sun

If I could, I would write that
you and I were stars
to bring everyone that beautiful
spark
in such dark
like you once gave me

But, alas, I am not a poet
And my words are as empty as the wind
But remember I would write so far, so long
Just to return to you all the joy
You once gave to me
In being my home.

Power.
No one can control it.
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side,
Or the *** down the street.
Power is a force you can't refuse.
Power is a sense of pride that you have in yourself.
Power is God.
And you don't have it.
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side
Or the *** down the street.
Your power dwindles,
As the man above you,
And the man above him,
And the woman ontop of him--
Absorbs it all so you're left vulnerable.
There is no time limit to how far it travels,
Just that you can never get it back,
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side,
Or the *** on the street.
He'll dangle it in your face.
Watching you jump,
Fall,
And crash,
Desperate to try anything to get it back.
And as his soap opera you have to be.
Why?
Because he has the power.
Not you, not me,
Not the rich ***** down on the side,
Or the *** down the street