Filling holes with things,
stuffing with green and items,
wanting to eat with kings,
needing to be king,
knowing that this desire cannot
be satiated,
nor can the want for
it to be.
Though notes bring slivers,
minuscule portions of contentment,
it is only obvious to seek
to find more,
until the pit is filled
to less full than it was.
It is impossible to give all away
and search for
substance, isn't it?
Or is it?
Maybe it is yet impossible to take
all and give nothing and be
full and large and happy.
Sliding into this familiar space,
I feel the weight of
emptiness,
exactly as it was before,
where it has always been.

Maybe I want to fall in love,
perhaps it is true.
Even being plagued with self-doubts
and typical well-placed criticisms,
I still think I could offer someone
something.
I can, right?
If I can keep my head from tumbling
from my laden shoulders, and
my anxious tongue in
check within my cheek,
I can love someone. Fully,
and selflessly.
But as I sense a step down
to new roads,
I feel my stride has not
changed, and the scenery will
only remain different for a small time.
Possibly, even, my gait has become
worse because of the hurry I am in.
I want to run, I'm encumbered
with ideas I must be free
of, and only so many days
before I return again
to my pit.

I've been corrupted.
I see the money, I taste the green.
Day to day, learning new
schemes.
I want more and more,
though I know,
enough is enough.
You don't have to want more
than you need,
but in a land of freedom,
I am still shackled by
debt,
and I just want to
be free.

When the mountains stretch across a starry sky,
the lone bird yells its final call,
and the desolate song bird sings,
sings that the world may be right
as another preaches its wrongs,
so shall too the ground take us all.
And with misdirection the trees grow
from this very soil which reaps
all life from the very beginnings
to the ending of time.
They pass by, so carefully,
and speaking in ways which are
easy, but misleading, as all
creatures do. Why must the truth
be so difficult to find?
How can they not see in the wake of
the sun's wake, and the passing
of four seasons, that it was not
a dream? Dreaming of times when
Mother Earth was kinder, these blades
of grass reach for the heaven and
moon, in a park with hammocks
where dreams were
destroyed.

Speaking into the air, he sang
sung, and preached mainly on one
subject.
"Playing the black card again."
As if that was the epitome of who
he was and is.
As if racism wasn't over and still existed.
Segregation isn't a thing anymore.
Who cares?
People don't get lynched anymore.
It's not like we don't have all the same
opportunities, don't all go to the same schools,
can't all apply for government assistance to get into college.
The media doesn't tell the truth.
Everyone knows that.
Blue on black crime is way
over reported.

This is the voice of many people in my hometown,
bouncing through my head,
ringing in my ears,
as it comes from their loud mouths
and closed minds and covered ears.
This is the voice of all the propaganda
and rhetoric I was fed as a kid.

Don't get it wrong,
I wasn't raised a racist.
My mother always told me that if you
treated them like you treated anyone else,
that nothing would happen.

I internalized it as "treat everyone the same."
It was years later before I realized the subtext,
the subtle divisive and splitting
nature her words had.
"Us and them."

The subconscious is a *****.

I had a cousin that married a black man.
She was ostracized in the family for
a long time.
My mother was the only one that stood
up for her.
Years after this incident my
niece started dating one of my black friends.
His name is not Token.
They were in love and everyone was
delighted for them.
There were flowers, it was mushy and sickening.
Everyone but my mother.
She pitched a fit, and did everything
she could to destroy the relationship.

I remember calling her and trying to
talk some sense into her.
Of course, it didn't work.
I was emotional,
and for the first and only time in my life,
I told my mom I was disappointed in her.

And I hear this man speaking up here,
talking about matters close to his heart,
and then I hear the white privilege
whispering in my own ear,
and I silence it.

Of course his color has colored his life.
In just the same way my pale skin
has made me blind and often insensitive to the
injustices anywhere which are injustices
everywhere.
And I can quote Dr. King,
but I can't know how he felt.

I don't trust people that say they don't see color.
If you can't see color then you must only
see the blinding white of your own privilege.
If you can't differentiate between one skin
color and another
how in the **** can you possibly speak on
prejudice?

Not being racist does not mean not seeing color.
Not being racist means putting aside your pride and
seeing your color as well as everyone else's.

I am inherently racist because of where I come from.
The system we live in was built on racism.
Isn't it possible the system is racist as well?

I read somewhere that the mark of a
narcissist in relationships is the constant
"place a person on a pedestal" versus
"person being the worst ever"
when I was trying to figure out my
narcissistic tendencies and if
a more distant lover was a narcissist.
I have seen this, been on the receiving
end of this,
so it doesn't surprise me when it,
again,
happens.
I have been on the giving end of this,
and the thing I find most important
in these situations is to not deny the
love you have for a person
even if you feel badly about them.
It only serves to damage both parties.

I woke up sad today.
Gently, I asked myself,
"Why?"
And my mind, responding,
showed me the dreams that, for once,
were a direct reflection of what had happened
the night before.
I'd glanced at your fridge, noticing,
not for the first time, the absence of
anything related to me,
and the presence of the past,
as if, somehow, the past had become,
once again,
more important than I.
But it's not my place to make those assumptions.
And you noticed my glance, maybe thinking
it was the first time I'd seen it.
Again, not my place.
My best guess for this would not be a matter
of importance, but, as usual,
a matter of ***-for-tat.
As if I made the decision to set
that bridge aflame.
I didn't.
And I refuse to make amends,
once and time and time again,
for something I hold no responsibility for.

I woke up sad today.
I examined it carefully over my morning
cereal and coffee,
accepted it,
and went on to have a semi-productive day.
And it's still here, this sadness.
And as usual, as it's mostly always been,
there is nobody to talk to.
My only comfort is a pen and paper.
Of course.
I ask myself,
"How could you open up to people?"
Not long ago I was described as emotionless.
Because, I guess, I don't openly express
my emotions,
but how could I?
Nobody has any interest in knowing me beyond
what I show them,
and that's ok,
but I wish people wouldn't assume
invisible means non-existent.

I woke up sad today.
I can't figure out if
I am guilty of seeking to be understood
before understanding,
or if others are guilty of it.
The result is the same, of course.
But I can only change myself.
And there are already steps in place
to create this change,
I could never be accused of not trying,
but self-improvement doesn't seem to end.
I'm content with myself,
but I'm still lonely.
And as usual, I'm wallowing.

I woke up missing a friend.

You pushed so hard.
It's a wonder the walls didn't crumble
sooner, and all of the delusions
melt the very floor we stood upon.
How could we have both been so blind,
how are you still so?
Projecting upon a person accusations and insecurities,
how did I not see that you were hiding the
very thing you were trying to find in me?
If you had found it, all of your own
demons could have been justified.
That's the logic behind that, right?
Whether consciously or unconsciously we are always
trying to rid ourselves of blame.
You should know that.
Why don't you?

You will not steal these tears from behind my eyes.

This will be the only poem here that I do not first write in my notebook.
Because it is not meant for me, it is meant for you,
this community.
A community where writers dare to write,
and judgement is not cast, no.
Where everyone knows and understands that the words are just that --
our own, and just words,
and that disagreeing, shamefully disgracing, and harming another
would only harm the community.
A community with hearts of gold and understanding in the darkest
of all of our  times.
We know that when we are feeling worst, or better,
our best,
we can spill ourselves onto paper, and then this screen,
or skip the paper (but I will only this once!),
and we will be welcomed with open arms
to those that understand
on the fundamental level what it is to love and to lose,
and to those that will not cast their own bias toward us.
And although I only post infrequently,
and love and share others' poetry even less infrequently
(I always and will always feel guilty about my lack
of contribution to this beautiful place),
I know that this is the place that has literally,
yes, literally,
the best people around.
Even though I haven't been around much,
I've never been met with a word that was less than kind,
and I think that the world should strive to be like you,
each and every one of you,
this community.

It feels like it has been years since I've cried.
Of course, it hasn't been,
but it feels so.
It's hard to be sad when so many lessons have been learned,
when "I've made it," and I'm still moving forward.
But it's foolish of me to ignore the growing loneliness,
lest it chew my insides up while I keep myself
distracted.
But it's also foolish to trade the pain I inflict on
myself for a pain yet unknown by another.
It's a cycle, yes?
We bear our own pain until it is unbearable,
trade it for pain from another,
and although it grants temporary reprieve from ourselves,
it is and will always be pain.
I'm happier alone.
And that's not to say I'm happy.
I'm not happy, and I will never be.
From my observations, I think that to be true of most people.
But that's ok.
It keeps people interested to be unhappy.
More importantly, for our own ego,
it keeps us interesting.
But I digress. Or have I?
For me to be content in my being alone and unhappy,
yet not lonely,
I would need a companion available enough to talk,
but independent enough to leave and be left be.
But when attachment is added, as it always surely is,
from me, from her,
it becomes impossible.
Or maybe it's just impossible for me.
So I get to question all things,
tear away at my thoughts and motives as usual.
But there's nothing different from that,
to question, push, leave, be alone,
and be left with nothing.
Of course, something always must come from nothing,
so how can we ever become anything when
surrounded by anything more than

I suppose this will be more of a rant than anything.
In order to capture the casual tone
in the form of poetry.
Or something like that?
I'm sick. ******* am I sick.
Sick of passive aggressive ******* nonsense and the
denial that comes with it.
When every sentence is meant as a slight attack,
every word laced with venom,
and you think I don't see it? Of course.
Because how could I see something you don't even see
in yourself. Impossible. Improbable, right?
That's what being above reproach is all about, isn't it?
To believe in your horse **** so whole-heartedly
that you find the justifications where ever you can,
no matter how many words and situations you have
to turn around, no matter how much you have to
deflect the subject to other trivial things until
we are doing nothing but talking in circles,
no matter how much you have to detract from the
truth to save yourself.
**** that.
I don't deal with that. I've done that **** to
people before too. I still do sometimes.
But holy ****, at least I can see it.
I can forgive it easily too...and do.
Of course I get mad about it, but there's hardly a
point in engaging that behavior. Why let that turmoil
swallow my emotions? **** no. Accept it, handle the
emotions that come with it, MOVE THE **** ON.
You can try to tear me down all you want,
but of course you know what they say about that.
It has had far too much of my attention as it is.
Even this is probably too much. But this is my outlet.
This is how I deal with things. Writing this, I'm
not even the least bit upset. I'm just letting thoughts
pour, and that's fine. The emotion behind them has
been processed without any damage to anyone.
You cannot possibly think it is healthy to use people as
emotional punching bags.
But anyway.
This is a side of me that doesn't come out. When you
know people, even casual friends, you learn their flaws,
they learn yours. It's not dishonest not to inform them.
At least, in my opinion. I believe everyone should
introspect closely enough to be in tune with their own imperfections.
As Jackson Browne put it, "Don't remind me of my
failures. I had not forgotten them."
And so it goes.
I plaster my own venom upon paper. Know that
if you read it, you have made the choice to poison yourself.

None of this takes away from my love for you, nor the
friendship we had.

It is what it is.

They call out,
"The disabled, line up!"
There is a man who stands,
and as if realizing who he is,
what he represents,
he places a pained hand upon his back.
He moves and shuffles toward
the waiting breakfast staff,
themselves waiting,
on a miracle, on worldly
compassion.
And these downtrodden,
these hurt and wounded,
the veterans of wars
global and personal,
are no longer human, no.
They are labels,
their entire purpose is to be
a sticker,
because we,
we have deemed them so.
Unfit, we say.
Unstable, we say.
Ill and weak-willed, we say.
We cast these judgements
to tear them down and
build ourselves up.
And if only we turned these
judgements inward, but
without malice, would we realize.
We too are weak.
Perhaps more so.

This place is familiar.
A place with walls dark
and as hollow as the thoughts.
A place to question,
a place of learning and of
unlearning
old, bad habits.
Or maybe reinforcing them.
The place where no answers lead
to millions of questions,
and the real question
is oneself.
To start sentences with "I"
as if I am the subject,
and not my thoughts.
Isn't that thoughtless?
Am I not blind to
this truth?
I am, I know.
This place cascades upon itself,
the silence is
beautiful.
But as maddening as beauty
is there room for
the humble?
Wrong or right?
If wrong then right,
if right then wrong,
such is the struggle
of challenging the self,
and here I am,
still viewing myself as the
subject.

If I spoke to maim,
if I spoke with venom,
you would not last,
you would not stand.
Take care to know that it is easy
to disable the fettered mind,
but much harder to show restraint
in the midst of
arrows aimed true.
I do not deny who I am,
I know of my errors.
Take care to know and
learn of yours.

Do not mistake kindness for cowardice.

Confront your uncomfortable truths.
It is your duty.
It is our duty, as humans,
for being uncomfortable is what
leads to
growth.

Forcing against the rock of
our own ego,
we must search for the light above,
reach for it,
and burst forth, shattering ourselves
and our perceptions of reality,
but, most importantly,
the perception of ourself.

Many times have I forced myself
to see myself, my thoughts,
for what they were,
and many times more I shall.
I have been crushed by myself,
fueled by self-hatred,
driven in ways that I thought
came from hate,
only now to realize the growth
of oneself by constant destruction
is not an act itself of destruction,
but an act of love.

And many times henceforth
I will be driven by the same feelings
of futility and impotence,
the same self-hatred as before.
I do not fool myself
into thinking that I am free from myself,
but at least
I am free.

And in confronting the truth,
so shall you too be.

Passing again,
through my thoughts
as the wind through an open
door.
A year and more
has fled,
and in my dreams we speak
and in my mind we
dance.
Of follies once uncertain,
now I am sure,
of my wrongs.

The universe is strange.

Lessons come and come again
until they are learned
and they disguise themselves,
they are well worn and apparent
to those who know,
as are the things we see
when we know.

And lessons, that which I had done
to you,
came around.
Karmatic.
So with my new knowledge,
my lesson learned,
I wonder again
if we could ever be.
Or, if you are still,
light years
ahead of me.

Never again
to sacrifice any part of myself
for another.

READ BOLD WORDS FROM THE BOTTOM TO THE TOP


                                       *Top.
                                     the very
                                rain.             To
                     the air bags you hounding      
                     us know. you got it from
                   to bad. soul-mates. straw protect
                 the paper. count daddy. cat roof
                 We tree. creative writing. painting build
              of do everything day. tattoos. harry hope.
        in potter, himym. the dam. racing. falling shingles
      our in water into the trash can. all the laughs.home
We the hopes. the dreams. the love. many more to come *cover
to form the ceiling in which we gaze upon in starry wonder
         and                                                              ­             up
         building                                                         ­          up
         ahead   and what lies           behind.     To       keep
         so          we       may               see        what         lies
         harm.   These glass               windows we       keep
         all          that         is                our        own   against
         build     so that  we                protect ours         and
         walls                                                            ­           we
         open             doors  to  the  future.                These
         can                live                  happily                 ­  and
         way               to                    in                         which   Cieara,       Eric
         so                  we         open the                          only      /|\              /|\
         for                 our                  future                      and       |   Dance  |
         on                  which             we                    prepare       /\     /|\       /\
         on which to lay our lives and hopes and  dreams     /   \   / \     /    \
         Build a foundation of  brick, mortar,  and    stone

The words, like cats,
play around bushes
and are elusive
yet natural.
For, even long before
I knew their truth
and perfection,
they danced around my mind
like rocks being shaken
in a glass orb,
destined to shatter and spill out,
or make their way
and tumble from my lips
and onto yours.
Such simple words,
three in number,
said a hundred thousand times many
in a certain future,
linger in my gaze,
express themselves in
every action,
and in every thought.
I see them flitter in
the alluring shades of brown
you so reverently eye
me with,
as you stand to your tip-toes
and plant a kiss,
plant a seed,
and I feel them pass
from your lips
and onto mine.
And how you hold me,
and cast not one judgment,
as my demons
wreak havoc on my
thoughts like glass,
you speak what I know,
what I've known
and dared not admit.
So I admit to you,
to myself,
these words which are
pouring over a useless dam
in many other forms anyway,
I say it as easily as
I blink,
I say it as easily as
I breathe,
I say it with a finality,
a totality,
a feeling of such completeness
that none has ever compared,
I say the simple sentence
which proves a life sentence,
an all or nothing,
an all in,
all you, always,
all the time,
finally,
I say it.

I love you.

And so it happens again,
the same words, but not,
same actions, but not,
same feelings, but not.
No.
All is unique in these
consecrate circumstances
we two (too) find
ourselves (with)in.
So these lines shirk the page
in a glorious,
albeit mispronounced,
declaration of what is
to come
and what so may
already be,
is it you,
is it me,
what if it's
both?
Will we see?
And what should provide such
inspiration
if not love
or hope thereof?
What could cause such
outpouring
of myself to another,
and her to me,
and ink to pages
as pages fill with ink,
but this?
This fair pairing
we almost are seeking,
which we bare our
hopes and dreams
and stars for the
taking. You.
You can be so many things
to me,
as much as these words
you inspire mean to me,
you can mean
more,
as many pages you will
(maybe, hopefully)
fill,
you can be more.
And as many things
you can be to me,
I must confess,
there are
many things you already are.

Many words to be said
on a thousand subjects,
but should I?
A look cast in
captivation, in awe,
caught by her fair
self,
dissected by a curious
and creative
mind.
Deflected.
Knowing that things said
without due cause
cannot be said non-caustically
and ceremoniously enough
for mine
and her
celebration.
Given careful time, these
sentiments cease in any
colorful misgivings
and come to
careful poetry.
So the watercolor carnations
creeping, chasing,
charging in our chaotic lives,
bind her child inside
as much as I
possibly could ever.
Courageously, she claws,
and my callous lips
close to form her name,
her call,
my continuous circumstance,
Cieara.

To the days I mark the date
and nothing else.

What would normally inspire
is now but a frugal reality.

These contradictions, inhibitions,
ways to still falter,
stitches,
from days gone, not forgotten,
that color my future,
my thoughts, my ways,
are nothing
short of. Words
echo in the chambers of
my mind, but
actions are as mute
as the passing of time.

All life drained within,
only an empty shell
that follows the
automatic processes
of a man
trapped
inside.

This is not who I am.

Silent, and sad,
unwilling to forgive
myself?
or
Her memory scorches the
fabric of every muse
and thought I should
revel in.
All thoughts to ink
to paper
to you.
To her it was nothing,
as infinitesimally small
as my now
motivation to create,
to Spring forth vitality
in Winter months.

This is not me.

These childish games
we play to reveal, subtly,
without direct approach to avoid
reproach,
ourselves
slowly. Now continue.
Participation desired,
possibly even
required
while a single, but different,
question flitters through
our mind.
Words fill the air like smoke,
choking,
to filter out reality and
dark intentions, the reasons for this
pairing. Unclear,
we touch palms
to mirrors
and see each other in a thousand
ways,
searching for the path from in
to out,
to see the limits, the reds,
of what can and should
happen.
Where the smoke
sways a gentle tiding
and the power plays
within all actions
become scrutable,
there we are found
and hide.
There we are captured
and doomed to reside.

I saw a long, lost friend today.
Years, it has been,
since he gazed and grazed
upon my flesh.
Years since the
candy apple red stained
him and I together.
Long have I avoided him,
long have I succeeded.
But no longer.
He kisses me with
sharp tongue
and promises of
the end.
Take me a little further,
I do,
know me a little better,
I do,
hold me just a little tighter,
he whispers.
And I do.
Shamefully,
I do.

I need a
loving touch.
I need someone
to care.

A word, a glance,
leading to a thought,
a muse.
And all is gone.
Walls turn dark,
faces sinister,
the floor is gone.
Falling.
While smiling faces
watch.
Suffocating.
While the pitch
invades.
Falling...
until.

I'm depressed almost every day. Nobody knows how bad it's gotten.

I have a problem with alcohol. The alcohol feeds my depression, and the depression feeds my addiction. My life is spiraling out of control, and nobody knows.

I thought I moved past being suicidal years ago. I was wrong.

I'm ready to get help, but I don't know how.

I'm doing the best I can.

You left me lost
lonely
longing
loving
insecure
incomplete

How did we go from
lovers
to being (in)complete
strangers?

All I can find within are
soft shades of blue,
dark shades of purple,
and unspoken words meant for
you.
All I can find without are
***-soaked nights,
promises laced in vanity
and unevolved fights meant for
you
but taken by me.

It burned, yes,
in the beginning. But now
the fire is only a means to
my end,
my final descent,
my final and only reprieve.

So I cast forth from these shores
in search.
These forsaken beaches which
weave sand into all of the cracks
of myself,
these crashing crests of water
which wear upon and split open
the sand-ridden chasms
of myself.

In search of lands
once known, twice lost,
and never found.

I beat and float along
in waters aride my haphazard craft.
Soothingly, up and down, as I am anyway,
for all evers,
in search.

While I look within
and tend to find that
with you I am without,
and without you, I am without
myself,
and without myself I am
complete.

Write in pen, not in pencil.
Such as in life,
we cannot erase.
Only mark, and scribble, and
smudge it away.
But the mistakes persist.
We write new lines,
new words,
new stories,
past the darkened marks
of our accidents,
in hopes we remain perfcet
onward, afterward,
only to misstep, miswrite,
misrepresent who we are and
permanently leave imperfect
marks upon the pages of
others' lives.

Watch her.
See her step, see her twirl.
With dozens of planets
which orbit her hips
as her skirt spreads in the wind.
She laughs and the morning dew
rises from the tall grass
in salute
of her soothing voice.
The mockingbirds follow,
imitating all the known
to make themselves known
to her,
as she hops, flips, and swallows
into the woods
without a care.
She races unto the path,
a path only for her,
lit with light from the sun,
only for her.
See that she touches the hard bark
of the trees with soft tips
of fingers, and the trees stand
to only provide her shade.

Now watch.

Her as the planets burn to
ash and fall among the
grass.
And the dew explodes in
ecstasy while the
birds of all choke on their
praise.
And the sun of all forgives
its light and collapses
inward.
And the tall pines creak and scream
** timber and fall
about.

Watch her.

How many faces
do you pass by
with broken dreams
and lonely eyes?
Lives and men you
have brought to their knees.
To adore you and love you
until you discard them
without a second glance
or thought
again.
As you cast your eyes away
because I will not cast mine,
as you cast your stones,
and I will not cast mine.
And you pass by,
telling yourself you don't love me.
You do,
I tell myself.
What trails of sadness and
regret
do you walk?
How many people can you step
on to get to the next
and the next and
to deride and discredit
their being as humans?
Do you stumble and fall
as we do,
or are you as sure as the
earth and fingers you so
irreverently step upon?

And so you pass,
with your silence and haste,
with your shrinking and bowing,
and your eyes cast and face of stone,
I find that my answer is
many
and that I am but
one.

I don't mean to be a bother,
or an inconvenience.
To mark upon your blankness in ink,
so settle down my thoughts
with every black line and
intention.
If I should go, say so,
please.
I do not wish to stay
unwanted.
I do not wish to intrude.

I only need a friend.
Someone to hear these trappings,
these innermost workings
which play on every insecurity,
everything I've ever done.

All I do is wrong.
All I do is hurt and
hurt others.
If you stay long enough,
I will hurt you too,
I will scribble away your life
as I do mine.

I don't want anyone to
hurt,
I just wish to
love.
And be loved
in every dark corner of myself.
But how?

As I grow older,
I grow more hated by
myself.
And if hate is all I know,
how could I ever love?
How could I ever experience another's
love?
Their compassion?
Their kindness?

So it is lost.

And I must ask,
though I mark you, tear you,
hate you,
can you love me?

Could you?

Invading my mind,
so march across at dusk
in the way that time carries
you away from me,
in the way every speck of dust
reminds me that
you are elsewhere.

You have captured me.

Ensnared my mind,
my life,
so I race to lose you
while I've already lost.
You and hope
do not belong
in any whimsical catering of
my life.

You have destroyed me.

****** my mind,
as the pages fill with
longing, and turn with
each passing lost hope,
and the blood runs from
busted knuckles with the
viscosity of one poisoned by
the serpent.

You have shown me what it is to love.

You have shown me what it is to lose.

To live and not to wander,
in travels and in mind,
must be the way to faulter
like no other kind.
To seek, create, to love, we do
wander on, as we must,
to never find what's true,
while our ashes turn to dust,
and sow what makes us blue.

Wander on,
do not stick to script.
And when life throws a rhyme,
and you're sure that it's time,
say no.

Flipped.

Wander on
the lines across
these
p
a
g
e
s.
Wander on,
until you reach the ages.

When you write with rhyme,
the poem will write itself.
Same with life,
and you'll find there's nothing
left.

What can you say that hasn't been
said?
Where can you go that hasn't been
led?

So say you break the mold,
break the rhythm, break the rhyme,
will you keep on going?
Will you find the time?

As the end comes nigh,
the finality closes in,
you begin to stray,
to see what may truly be
offered.
But if only you had the energy,
you know you couldn't wait.
To enjoy life's simple pleasures,
and now it's far too
late.

Still I have not forgotten.
All the sorrow, the pains,
the wistful goodbyes of yesterdays,
ring hellos into all of my tomorrows.
Some remain subtle, some must be unwound
as must the tricky words and expressions
of one who must both express and hide
the matters of weight on his mind,
and some
crash through with an unfeined vengeance,
as such must be taken on my
soul.

And on the late nights such as these,
when the crickets cry,
and the moths fly dutifully to their death
into the only flame which lights my existence,
I can understand,
completely comprehend,
every wrong turn I've ever made.
I see that, though this wretched agony
is all I have,
it is I
that has caused all of
my suffering and much of
others.

Still,
as hopelessness pervades and
the names of past lovers
rush past my lips,
and the liquid inspiration runs past my lips,
I find the center in me.
And, much like an ever-burning candle
in a hurricane,
despite its fragility,
it will not fail.

So, though I may speak in riddles and
rhyme in trivialities,
I know there is a part of me as
insistent as
infinity, and
as wrong as generalities.
And even when I fail, as surely
I shall,
I can never lose complete hope.

How I wish I could.

To just fly into the flame and
forget
all who would be to blame, and to
regret all who would feel the same.
To let go of my worldly desires,
I yearn,
to find the truth when our eyes
forever close,
to the world and
to ourselves.
To burn
in the way
that would finally set me free.
To release myself to and in finality to
my demons,
my reality.

But I can't.

As my yesterdays knock on my tomorrows,

I can't.

Up and down this long lost road,
lost amoung,
things once known.
We search for rest
through winding mountains and
perilous valleys.
As headlights race
through countless alleys
in their seeking glow,
we seek to learn,
we seek to know.
They bask the homes
in electric luminesce
as they slumber together,
and as we ride alone,
radio turned low,
thoughts turned high,
pedal to the floor,
destination: unknown.
We drive these roads,
these roads drive us,
some roads once,
some roads many,
some roads home,
many roads
home.

I weep.

For the long lost trips amid and afloat the sloshing and entangled water and stars.
For the star-crossed lovers between here and afar.
For the forgotten man with rusted paws and a jaded sense of self.
For the inhabitants of our entangled star which passes through as many dimensions as the madman's thoughts and also more dimensions than he has such.
For the surrounded and still solitary dust ball of our home where we are a disease which so fruitfully multiplies.
For the soft and once guiding light which only naivety and depravity can spark.

I weep.

For myself, others, and everyone, which are as much a part of me as I am of them and we as much a part of the universe - with its many facets and worn down lines - as it is of us.

I weep.

For the truth in our collectiveness that we destroy with the insistence and grief that we are apart and alone afloat these entangled stars.

I weep.

If
     you're
          never
               doing
                    something

then

you're
never
doing
anything.

Remembering
who you were
always
tells of who you are.

There is this quiet
and persistent voice
in my head -
quiet enough not to be heard
in everyday life, but
persistent enough to be an
agonizing stitch -
that tells me that society is wrong,
that it is backwards,
that its morals are convoluted,
and only when I am surrounded
by the sounds of nature -
the rushing of water,
the chirping of birds,
the buzz of insects -
and not civilization
can I hear it
without agony.

Looking
back
at it,

you were the ******* crazy one.

Shattered.
Like a glass so carelessly forgotten about
in the wake of something better.
Skin cracked, veins taut
with the anger of past failures,
cut, bleeding,
from the words of your mind.
Broken.
Given to carry the weight of others,
driven to forget about the weight of mine,
and hurt,
hoping to extract the last strengths
of me.
Hopeless.
As a man needing to calm his thirst
as the sun-baked sand reaches ever
onward,
and his reliances grow tired
and time ticks forward
relentlessly.

Shattered. Broken. Hopeless.

All that belongs to me.

To reach out at dusk,
across the near-night sky
where all is turned to dust,
past the galaxies,
and completely around a
cylindrical infinity,
to discover:
that she is nowhere to be found,
not a single sweet breadth of her existence,
none,
not even a sound.

So the rain falls with soft
tss tss and patter pitters,
and is oft what withers
away my desire to quell the hunt.
For the rain reminds me,
of the cycle, the infinity,
the growth of the 'morrows and
divinity.
No matter the cloud-cover,
the star-blocking puffs,
I see the suns, moons, planets,
the habitable and the rough,
to know,

That to reach across space and time,
with a few short words,
and a few short rhymes,
is not the way to a soul
as pure as hers,
but in the way the
lone bird cries out in the night
as the rain falls upon its nest,
it is all I know to do.
To fly out among the drops
as would a butterfly
and to be returned to the Earth
as the water explodes on my
so delicate wings,
and the darkness traps
my mind.

And in the dirt
of such loving Earth,
I search.
To reach across every entwined root,
and to extend to every network of the fungi,
which so dutifully disposes of me,
and to strain and grasp
toward the center that burns
as hot as the scars within
my lifeless body,
to discover the gems of millinea
and the gold of centuries,
but not the treasure
which I so desperately seek,
even in my destruction,
not her.

And to reach across these words and thoughts,
as they bloom like the Spring trees,
and as the grow like turkey's tail,
as vibrant and recognizable,
to dissect them with razors
and hang them with rope across
the headboard of our lives.
We search for the meaning of our demons,
and our demons search for each other
in our words, in our motions,
to tear each other apart
for their emotions.
Until we scream red
to make it stop,
to erase the dead,
to bury the pain of our
childhood battles.

And I search within myself,
as the cold seeps in, and the wet
turns to an ice only for me,
and the lonesome star peers through the clouds,
as if to keep company with its
solitary light.
I sift through the darkness and
mushroom driven decay that smothers
the soil of my being, my center,
my soul, and my heart,
for her.
I cast aside the dejected and deplorable
self
to reach into the nucleus where all is
pure,
to find her,
to find you,
the only place where you belong --
within.

I can't apologize anymore,
for who I am, who I've come to be,
who I was and will be.
I cannot.
If my person offends you
when I do not speak my thoughts,
and also when I do,
I cannot help you.
I have spoken far too much,
and far too little,
for far too long
not to know
what I should hide
and what I should show.
I have wrestled my thoughts
for years until I've found I cannot,
but instead must observe them with
an objective eye,
cut them open
with an inquisitive mind,
searching for something,
but only to find --
that it is best to let them pass
without consequence,
without permanence,
only resonance.
And if you cannot take seriously
the things I know seriously
of people, the world,
the pain,
then you deserve
manipulation,
exploitation,
desecration.
For I do not speak lies,
and if so,
by mere mistake,
when I speak of what I see,
and what I see is fake.
Too many false words
have fallen on my ears
not to be distrustful
for the rest of all my years,
and not to know and read and see
what people would have come of things.
And I cannot blame them, no.
For we are all full of ***** tactics,
shadowy motives, and schemes.
It is everyone's duty to see this
in themselves,
and to know it must be in others
as well.
And when I try to take responsibility
for not or for
voicing passing thoughts,
and their effects,
only to be met with more wrongs,
and rejects,
I cannot.
For if I am to believe
my responsibility towards you
is meaningless,
then I should seek responsibility elsewhere.
I know.
I know there is much to learn,
and much I do not know,
because I know what I know,
and I know how little that is.
What I know are things about myself,
and therefore others,
that I will always improve upon myself,
or at the very least,
I will try.

So I will not apologize anymore.
For to do so means apologizing for
learning, of myself and of others,
for improving, of myself and of others,
and for trying, for myself and for others,
and I cannot.

I cannot apologize.

Just out of reach,
the suckling mockingbird upon the Willow teases.
She sings a song of poetry,
rife with meaning, but
only to her.
She tells of great things, splendorous pursuits,
and attracts all who should dare
to pass by and lend an ear.
And I stare,
with visions of grandeur
and hope for something as true to time
as the passing of such,
with the chains of tomorrow within mine eyes.
And I listen,
to every song, every note,
with the marvel of time
ringing through my ears
as it moves through towards an ultimate demise.
Transfixed.
I am,
as I stand to enjoy the precious moment,
as still and sure as her flighty, beating heart,
knowing
any move shall cast her south toward warmer climates
and stiller waters.
And as I listen to her sing and stop
and sing some more
of her stories, her drifts through the sky and
drafts oft turned to journeys,
I come to see her heart.
I come to see her life.
And I endeavor to show her mine.
So with great effort,
I tear free the padlocks which time has so
firmly entombed upon my mind and chest.
I wrench them free,
screaming,
as the fire spreads through my veins,
as the poison finally leaks outward of my mind.
I fall,
as my legs give way to the weight of the yesters,
and my eyes search for the person I was
in the dirt of childhood's battleground.
Meanwhile,
startled, scared, delicate,
my mockingbird lifts away and moves on to other lands,
never to return to me.

Do not fall in love with me.
I'm dangerous.
For every wound I inflict upon myself,
I must inflict on others,
and to love me makes you a target.
I will lift you high above
all others,
and let you fall below
every other.
You will feel the
disappointment, hatred, and melancholic reproach
I suffer in myself
day after wretched day.

Selfish.
That's what I am,
even though I try to be
selfless.
I give everything I have,
and then take it back
and more.

I struggle
to find peace within,
for I know,
that if I calm my desire
to destroy
the self,
I will calm the unconscious
destruction of others.

And there are many things
I have mastered within myself,
within my mind.
There are many demons I have already
faced down,
destroyed, obliterated,
mastered.
And every day forwards me
a new challenge to forward
myself.
And I do my best,
and I long for the day
I do not hurt or hurt.
I try,
but
I'm dangerous.

Do not fall in love with me.