By seeing this Show of Nature's Great Players
You muse at their Songs and lay your Best Arm
First around her Neck, then towards the Breakers
Praising her Legs for your own Private Art
Best indeed, was your Snickering Advance,
Thinking such Act would be overlooked in-Call
One Classic Method, Man! This Begging Romance
Elders as such know when your Heart takes the Fall
Goodness, Lover-Boy! Wrap those Curtains around
If you both need to perform your own Script
Some of us are Touchy when hearing those Sounds
Of Slips and Slurps which pump your Nerves one Bit.
Check your Programme. There is Something you missed
Those Thespians above also deserve a Kiss.

Losing you is like waking up on your 18th birthday,
And feeling no different than the day before,
Yet knowing that something inside you is taking its course.
Week after week, gradually you become older,
In a way that can't be measured by years.
You mark out your calendar as if keeping record will stop time from driving you mad.
Birthday dinners, doctors appointments, and important obligations
Peak out from under black scribbles and abstract musings.
Moving on is when the page is full and blotted,
And it's time to move to February.
We're fated for that kind of closure, I think.
The past months aren't any less real or poignant now that they've been pushed aside,
But they can't affect me like they once did.
Missed lunch dates and last minute schedule revisions
Don't mean anything less than when they were happening,
But their significance was left, crumpled and blacked out on the face of January.
Stuck in the distant space where past months vanish.
Holding on is when you accidentally write 2012
Instead of 2013, and have to quickly distort the two
Into a three, before anyone has time to notice.
There's no sentiment attached, instead it's a testament of broken routine
And nothing more.
That's how losing you feels.
There's no wilted rose or breaking waves
To symbolize a heartache that's no longer here,
Those sentiments of emotion left along with you
And the cold, indifferent agenda of January.
I tried to fight it off as long as I could,
By pushing you into a corner of my mind,
Almost impossible escape,
Holding fast to the memories we share,
Convincing myself it wasn't over,
That there was still hope,
That I still cared.
I was never afraid of moving on,
Or losing you,
No, I knew that would be inevitable,
Beautiful, almost.
Instead, it was no longer caring that scared me:
My capability to shut off all emotion,
With the switch of a button,
Obliterate all of what we had.
It's too late now, even these words fall flat
Against my self made wall
Of gentle indifference and time.
Soon February will fade to march,
Leaving January buried deeper beneath the fabric of closure.

He had two scars on his wrists,
To remind him of the past,
And how important,
Yet fragile
Life can be.
He used to live here,
In the city,
Before he left
And headed South,
In search of something
He never really wanted to talk about.
Maybe  it was something
That wasn't really there
At all.
I remember listening to
Him talk about the possibilities
That awaited him,
I wonder if they're still out there
Waiting
Endlessly for him to come
And turn them into
Reality.
I hope they are.
Somehow, he always
Found a silver lining,
Always managed to relate
To my sorrows
While also making them
Disappear.
Now he's the one who's gone,
And the pain is still here.
Maybe he was too busy
Helping other people find their happiness,
That he lost his own,
Or maybe he finally found what he was searching for
And it was too much,
Or not enough.
I always think about
What he was thinking,
And how I couldn't tell
That something wasn't right,
Maybe it's because
I felt the same way
Too.
Except that I'm still here,
And he isn't.
Replaying all our late night conversations,
It doesn't seem quite real,
That someone who understood so much,
Could feel so alone.
Our conversations are gone now,
Lost in the no mans land of
Old text messages,
Hour long phone calls
And the past.
The only memories I have
Are too real to ever
Evaporate,
Yet even they
Couldn't escape his departure,
And now they lay there
In the deepest corners of my mind,
Tainted by his absence,
Giving a whole new meaning to
Past tense.

Religion brought me tea at noon,
And taught me how to pray,
To God, and birds, and indifferent moon
That holds the world at bay.

Heaven came to me disguised,
Beneath the heavy drone,
Of millions of silent prayers,
Pleading to be left alone.

I heard the cries of anguished souls,
Lamenting their fate,
For penance costs a heavy toll
To walk the narrow and straight.

I found my heart laid out to dry
Upon the chapel floor,
As saints and sinners passed it by,
Too busy to implore.

I paid my dues at Sunday mass,
And sold my soul last June,
Because infatuation with the past
Brings even the pure to ruin.

I heard the angels singing out
A sad and passionate song,
As the world shrunk back in pious doubt,
They continued on and on.

I fell into a rabbits hole,
Full of all that isn't,
I accepted Him to make me whole,
The most righteous kind of prison.

There is no honest answer.
Worlds fall from our wind-chapped lips
Like marbles, heavy on our tongues,
Hitting the ground with a muffled splat,
As we fumble on all fours trying to retrieve them.

There is no honest answer.
We push and shove our muddled consciences, unprotected, into  a dark alleyway
Full of lost chances and half hearted embraces.
Until there is nothing left but a small hollow pang in the bottom of our guts.

There is no honest answer.
Openly, we ask others what we are too afraid to ask ourselves, even in the private of our own minds.
Truth sits at the bottom of our flouncy ideals and broken promises,
Like the last drops of 2% milk,
That only come out of the carton once it's lying face down on the dumpster floor.
There is no honest answer.
                                                                                   MB.

The only mistake you've ever made
is thinking that one mistake
will make you.

Think
the over thinking
Like
wanting a drink that you're already drinking
Like
wanting to swim when you're already sinking
So easy to think the over thinking
a concoction of daydreams
you hate to be drinking
While
you're already busy believing your sinking
and your foots on solid ground.
So easy to think the over thinking
leaving
your future on the brink of brinking
And
you haven't done a thing cause
you're too busy thinking.
So easy to think the over thinking -
The only reason that your really sinking
in a world that may be okay.

on wings of light-
we fly.
without the need of getting high,
laughing at others as they float on by-
this is me-
when thinking about you-
about us,
together we can learn to trust
the new found freedom of flight
on the wings of light
and the downs that come before it.
lets fly.

tip-tap
the tippler rain drips
tip-tap
the tippler rain's slick
tip-tap
the rain, tippling, wraps
lit-up
city streets in plastic

The fly on the wall
stalled, its small
head pointed
n
w
o
d
,
not to listen in
but to black glisten in
the reflected light,
the wall's, and then fly