In the night when
the full moon lights
your bed clearly,
you call to me.
Your eyes guide me
close to your ***.
I smell your need
matching my own.
I taste your pulse
as it quickens,
drawing me in
deeper. Deeper
into your soul
and your body.
Convulsing, tight
and uncontrolled.
Primal embrace
fulfills as we
demand pleasure.
Desires sated,
as I take you.

when i was young
i was told that there would come a day
when i would understand

when i would understand
what it meant to care for someone more dearly than myself
what it meant to love

i thought i knew
because i saw a few movies and i had my family
i thought i knew everything

but i was a child
and as i grew i learned that i knew few things
other than being a child

other than the golden rule
and to always scrub behind my ears diligently
and to not talk to strangers

it wasn't 'til i saw her
that i started to understand what they had told me
gradual glances and smiles

conversations about nothing
searching instead of coming across each other
seeing through eyes not to them

touching fingertips to cheeks
touching hands and being happy with existence
taking solace in each others arms

joining lips and thoughts
joining smiles and knowing that the world is imperfect
knowing that we are perfect

you're just a child
but there will come a day when you understand
what it means to love

If I seem surprised,
it's because I'm still alive.
My search for eternal sleep
ended with a nap.

You didn't see because I didn't let you,
but you were never one to want to help.
You sent me on my oh so merry way.
Why didn't you know I was that far gone?

Though I don't blame you for damning
me. The river flowed too strong inside,
it was up to me to dam myself. Too
bad I dove into the raging torrent of

Baltic tea, yack and Judas. I have no
need of temporary sleep. I only have
freezing sweats and waking dreams
that make me picture you and know

I need to seek another push and pull
until I'm blind to what you were to me.
If I freeze my insides the river will stop
flowing so violently and for once I may

be able to take a breath and dream
without a bottle and pictures of you.
I'll lie by the bank and smile at how
calm it has become since I threw in the ring.

I don't blame you for damning me, and
I don't blame you for keeping turned.
I only blame me for not daming myself
when I had the chances back then.

Let loose the river; I'll happily swim the rapids
without preserver. There isn't much left to
keep afloat. Not that I need to die this time,
but I can't say I'd resist without you.

Now and then I like to look in the mirror and pretend there's no reflection.
Pretend that there is no existence and no possibility
for the imperfection that haunts that slab of float glass and aluminum daily.

        sickly skin, natural scowl
                 cracking lips,
      bloodshot eyes forming tears.


Now and then I like to stand in front of the mirror and close my eyes.
That way I can ignore what is dulling the bright surface
and synthesize an image on my eyelids that doesn't hang so stale.

     shining crown, sword and
               shield, stand
     in triumph on boney field.

Now and then I like to draw on my mirror until no space is left but eye holes.
Then I can keep staring intently and be disillusioned
as to how my soles have become hopelessly glued to this tile mausoleum.

     wings take me higher than
                   feet ever
      could, grazing the clouds.

But most of the time I just turn out the lights.

Sometimes I feel the ceiling falling,
but that's just peripherals hauling shadows and crows calling from fallows.
Reality isn't changing, only my perception falling down,
aging and growing wicked angry and spiteful just 'cause I let it,
spitting lines of depression and hostile succession,
holding onto negative lessons,
refuting positive progression at the expense of intense spiritual expansion,
shunning the silver lining,
running too scared for shining sun to brighten the mood,
lighten the load, smooth the road,
crack the code of the looming clouds of the crowded skyline out the small window of the attic,
where I go to feed the addict and think about how my time would be better spent
playing roulette with russians and using automatics,
crack crack,
future's silent.

That's not really me, couldn't be, quietly pondering failures of loathing and perpetual black
clothing hiding scars of bygones instead of healing, sealing the skin like new, forging a
better view, starting to get a clue.

It's time for a change.