i write poetry in fifty seconds or less
sometimes the words taste like salt
and sometimes like maraschino cherries

i wonder if my blood is red or if it's purple
because pain no longer feels like the color red,
it feels like numbness, cold unsaturated color.
red is diamond and fire and volcano
and it doesn't seem fair to call myself eruption.
it would be more accurate to say that i'm sand dune
and flood
and hurricane,
something that doesn't burn painfully
but slowly sinks into your skin
like water
until you breathe in what you thought was air,
but really it's not oxygen anymore,
it's me.

this one tasted like salt.

*(a.m.c.)

If I'm the guy who waits,
is there some way?
Cause here I am,
I was, I remain.
The aging clocks face,
ticks out each second passed,

and here I am regardless.

Caught up in fairy tale nostalgia,
forgiven all the wrongs,
hurt endured,
selecting only the best
and cherished
fleeting
flickers of glimpses
at night
just as I fade
to the place where you still come

there too, not always pleasant.
Sometimes I wake and ache so bad
but the cause of that is you
Will I ever turn you out,
face away?
Is this time squandered,
wasted, fruitless?
Or one day are we going to be, again?
Am I okay with no love unless,
unless...
if nothing changes,
distance remains,
who to blame
but my own cowardice.

Some day,
. . . . . . . . . one day,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . maybe,

hearts can change

The little old house on the hill
with cracking floors
and withered flowers
Grey skies hang
like chandeliers
from century old ****** mansions
Romance and rot
in the panels of wood
secrets and stories
hidden in bed springs
that still ring the sound of our laughter
Yellowed curtains
once white with glow
fly outside the window
some people fear places like these
but I seak comfort
In dancing with the ghosts
who once left their print
In the little old house on the hill.

I want to be so skinny it hurts.

Ideas, ideas,
    Scribbled ink.
Ideas, ideas,
    Ideas of you.
Cursive letters
    on burnt edged paper
the blood from my rose
    staining your name
What's love without life?
    or life without love?
But what am I,
    without you?
Engrave your name
    on my lonely heart,
and pray that i'll see you soon.
    Close my eyes,
and listen,
    listen to the hushes of wind,
luring me deeper, and deeper,
    and deeper....
All the way past,
    the presence of sleep.

I am filled with death.
    Disease courses through my veins
        I swim deep down into depression
            Each breath feels like drowning
                Fourteen days, 1209600 seconds
                    Until I can sink down to the bottom
                        An endless drop to God knows where.
                            I'll watch the azure sky fly further away.
                                Where am I going?
                                     Where do I belong?
                                          Hold me close
                                               When I die.