I think I could fall in love.
Fall like Alice down
the rabbit's hole-
spiraling in circles
until I crash into
some subterranean ground
of a world not like my own.
See, you can't step gracefully
into love, carrying your
ideals carefully in your hands
like precious wares.
You've got to fall
and trust gravity as it
pulls you down toward
your destination of love unknown.

They are angry.
They gather in masses
On streets, in parks,
On benches they wait.
They are angry.
They feel their mouths
Have been muzzled and
Their words are swept
Away like garbage on the curb.
They are growing.
More and more each day,
On screens and pages
Their dissent, our dissent
Grows louder.
We are angry.
Yet still the suit and tie
Turns its back and covers its ears
Trying with its might to shut us out.
But we are angry,
We are growing,
And we won't be silenced.

i can't stand good byes
those moments when the words
i am not ready to say,
never ready to say,
get caught in my throat
and choke the courage from my lungs.
eyes that sting with the
tears of longing
for one more moment to
simply sit and laugh
and be young like this
a little while more.
i hate good byes
the denying forever
as the minutes move faster
with the hands of the clock
to the time when
this car will pull out
of that driveway
and my hand waves its
last good bye
to you for a while.
i hate good byes
we need more hellos.

As my body ebbs and flows
With the beat, beat, beat
Of your bass
My eyes wander through
The crowd.
Smiling faces swallowed
By the sound.
We are wild and free
Flowers in the storm,
Clutching tight to
Our beautiful petals.
Shaken and stirred
By a world that does
Not understand.
We are unperturbed.
Pick us, pluck us,
Plant us where you may.
For one day you will see
The undeniable glory
That this beat and this life
Possess.
We are wildflowers
Swallowed by the sound.

I search the shambles
of my brain
For a memory of
how it used to be.
Before neurons
and synapses were
synthetically
altered. Before
emotions knew such
peaks and valleys
only depicted in
the finest of art.
Some days my
small, open palms
come up empty...
gripping and grasping
at straws feebly
******* at long since
evaporated air.
But then there are those days,
the ones that begin
with a shine and
end with a glow,
On those days
I recall the
blissfully innocent
images of a girl
untainted, untouched.
Of a stone
unturned. Those days,
if you see my
eyes in passing
connection,
make note of the
lingering glitter
of a girl
who gave her all
To get her all
in return.

i like to think
that all i am
is because
of all that you
have been.
that the color
of my eyes
is an intricate
mosaic of those
that have
seen before me.
the idea that
because your hands
and your feet
have explored
this earth
mine are so
lucky and proud
to do the same.
and i carry this
with me for
the day will come
when you
are gone and
i remain, when
those that
are to come
have came
and the only time
i see your eyes
is in pictures and
the mirror on
the wall.

only a fool
would believe
the man preaching
from the pulpit
in a collar much
too high and stiff.

the words that
"death is like sleep."
what a lie to tell
oneself in such times...

sleep-
so fleeting, so restful, so warm.
death-
so permanent, so final, so cold.

death is not sleep.
no, of this i am sure.

i couldn't wake you.

you were not asleep
in that hard wooden box
that my shivering
knobby, young knees
knelt before so
long ago.

nor was he simply
resting in the room
with the french doors
closed that i did not
enter, where his
mustache lay
mistakenly shaven
on a frigid face

death is no sleep,
there is no
waking from
a dream.