If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never doubt
yourself. No, never.
You would never have
the audacity to say
"I can't" because you,
yes you,
are amazing beyond anything
I have ever known.

If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never be the
same. Not ever.
You would be blinded
by the beauty
that radiates from
within you, from outside
of you. The very essence of beauty
that makes up you.

If you, could see you,
through my eyes,
You would never be sad
again. No, never.
You would know why
I love you.
You would see the grace,
in every little thing
you do, say, and think.
You would see the endless
depth for which my love
for you grows. The never ending
abyss of swirling,
crashing waves of love
I have for you.
You would finally understand
the absolute perfection
of you
if you could see you
through my eyes.

Watch me as I fall
without you.
I've spent years
perfecting this dark energy;
you are not the first
to leave me longing.
Watch closely.
I can build a statue
from ashes,
inhabit order
surrounded
by chaos.
Watch as I consume,
without myself,
myself.
I can fall,
but I cannot fail.
Watch.
You only scratched
the surface
of who I was
and am,
but you let loose this
agony -
my flood,
my fuel.

The closest I ever feel
to anything
is to the words I write.
When I am a million leagues
into the depths,
and there is nothing,
nothing to do
but carve these letters
into the floor.
No,
nothing.
Nothing more.
Words ring hollow,
and melodies fall flat,
prayers (un)heard,
another test.
This too will pass,
but while it stays,
while it tarries,
black is bequeathed behind
my eyes
my mind is marred
in manic peril
and I carve these words
into the floor
one more time
one more time
once more.

It's obvious, isn't it?
When two similar planets pass by
each other
and get caught in
each other's
gravity.
It's obvious what must happen here.
The words not said
scream loud enough to
bridge the hundreds of miles,
and we still don't
say them.
Not yet.
It's obvious we haven't been here before.
Into uncharted waters,
we move so
very
slowly,
careful not to create waves
before we meet in the center,
careful not to misstep,
so that we can
do things right
for once.
It's obvious.

I wouldn't even recognize you,
nor you I.
How we have changed and grown,
how the years and loves
have formed us.
How the trials have toughened
or beaten us.

I hope you are well.

I hope that the world has not
stricken the love from you,
and that the lives which
surround you and which you surround
still smile upon your kind soul.

I hope you have not been beaten too much.

I hope you have faced down more trials
than have faced down you,
and that the things which you have conquered
have been strengthening instead of
diminishing to your spirit.

Of all hopes, I hope that you still
find a reason to smile
every day.

Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me the bitterness
and from sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world may know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.

I am unsure of the nature of my insanity.
I don't know whether I shall overcome this,
or watch my life come crashing down around me.
I don't know where this path will lead.
It winds and it turns and it goes over mountains
and through valleys and even further
down
into caves and I am lost.
I am so utterly lost and beyond rescue.

I hear voices.
The say they want to save me.
They say they care.
I believe them sometimes, but come nightfall
all is lost.
I have never been so shaken, so scared.
I cannot describe this aloneness, this
simple singularity.
I know there are those that would take my madness.
They stand by me, but
I am blind.
I could hear them, but
I am deaf.
I can touch them, but
I am not convinced of reality.

I cannot accept that my life may end in ruin, but
will I really have a choice?
Will my mind just take over my mind and
destroy all I hold dear?
I don't know.

I just don't know.

So, you reading this, remember me please.
As I am now while I haven't been consumed by darkness.
Take these words and savor them.
This is me.
I am not yet insane.



One day I might be.

Shouldn't we see the world for what it is? Whether the land as barren as an oceanless sea or a forest thick with shrubs and trees of green and wildlife prouncing about. Can we not take what we want if we both want the same? What are miles as the crow flies and leopards roam? Are we not creatures of the flesh? We should ravish these bodies in the blistering sun of our own making; it would be so easy.
      It's like the world has stopped turning, and yet the birds still sing. We are silent. The nights and days grow longer; we know it's only a matter of time. It slips. The time slips, and we are complicit in its passing over us. We are frozen and complacently lost in the reveries of the words caught in our lungs.
      I am asking every question I can. Why now? Why should I long for something which I do not yet know? Yet I do. We kick up dust in our rhetorical dance, and it is only the steady rain of the passing days that can settle it again.
      We both have roots in places not near. What does it mean to uproot the life? A transplant to other lands, and if anything should go wrong, we might rot into the soil if only to be reborn again — we are resilient and as sure as a passing day. Let me water your roots where ever they choose to grow, and let me shine down to encourage where ever you choose to bloom.

The notes, flowing
flowing, flowing.
Through the air,
the air.

The notes going
going, going
Without a care,
a care.

The notes slowing
slowing, slowing.
In my heart,
my heart.

The notes sewing
sewing, sewing.
So far apart,
apart.

The music, the music.
Such a joy,
a joy.

The melody, the melody
so coy,
so coy.

The music, the music
speaks to my soul,
my soul.

And to every soul it speaks,
it speaks.

Consider me like an afterthought
and I will fade away.

Take me into the depths.
Show me the underwater beast,
the Leviathan, the oceanic Medusa,
the wet, slithering, Hydra.
Let me breathe in the sick algae,
and bury my eyes in floating sand.
Fill my lungs with coral and stone,
and grind my feed to stumps
so I never escape.
Bind my hands with a seaweed embrace,
and let me bite the fisherman's hook,
fool such that I am.
Worthless drifting piece of trash
cast into the ocean tides,
starved of affection,
and bitter in the world.
Drag me down into the depths
and leave me there
where I belong.

i. Reasons Why
To seek to understand the self.
To put the scattered pieces
together
to form a coherent narrative of
my life.
To understand what pieces are missing
and how to continue without
them.

ii. First Memories
The first memory I have is
of a high chair,
ravioli,
and an unfamiliar older woman.
Mother working.
I explored the house,
a baby gate with dogs behind.

iii. Paranoid Tendencies
Later, Mom with her pistol,
nails in windows,
doors locked,
even internal ones.
Being hushed
told to hide under the desk
with my nieces.
Terrified of what was happening,
she went outside
to clear the perimeter,
certain,
so certain that people are
after all of us.
Why?
I remember her wild green eyes
and her hair of fire.

Nights of this,
waking up to her shooting outside
my window,
cursing at this alleged person
"creeping around."

Nights she would sit in a
small yellow chair,
only meant for kids,
at the door leading from the back room
to the kitchen.
I'd have to ***,
but she would clear the rooms
before I went.
That's love.
Protection.

iv. Missing Father: **** On You
The first time my father
held me,
I ****** in his face.
So I'm told.

v. Education Impressions
I wandered through the halls,
my first day of
school, Kindergarten,
with no clue where I was going.
Dropped off, late for work.
Always working, the bills had to
be paid.
That's love.
A roof over my head.

Paddled weekly, sometimes more,
in Kindergarten,
age 5.
Apparently I had some disciplinary
issues.

Pulled from this school, onto
the next.
Write-up forms weekly, or more.
I would slip them under the
bathroom door in the morning
while Mom was in a rush,
getting ready for work.
Always being paddled,
coming home to switches and belts
and hands
and a tired Mother.
Nothing abusive,
but that's love.
Discipline.

Fighting, kicking, punching,
pick on me,
try it.
Always fighting.
Their most used punishment was
to walk the fence
during PE.
Needless to say,
I never got my Physical Education.

Moved to another school,
discipline issues
again.
Stopped fighting,
and sacrificed my self-esteem
for it.
The issues continued,
but I graduated and
left.

vi. Missing Father: Formative Years
This is when you were needed most.
I made many poor decisions,
a stupid kid,
with a need for just a bit
of guidance.
I made it on my own though.

vii. Bologna and Ramen
There were special nights,
with an electricity through the air,
when Mom would cook.
Hamburger helper, green beans,
corn, a fresh gallon of
sweet tea, a slice of white bread
to top it off.
A meal for kings in those days.

But, typically, with a single income,
and a house of five,
it was sandwiches and noodles.
I despise bologna and ramen
still.

viii. Missing Father: The Second Time
The second time we met
was in a store my Mom frequented.
I asked you if I should get
a hot sausage.
I didn't find out who I had spoken to
for years.

ix. Control
As a kid I always could figure
out how to make things
go my way.
I would make sure things lined
up
just
right.

Most things are about the order
in which information
is revealed.
You have to see through others' eyes.

It's a ***** side of me,
but I do what I can to keep it at bay.
Still,
it remains.

x. Envy
Family in Auburn,
cousins, Aunts, Uncles.
There was one set in particular.
My Uncle who come from nothing,
as all the others,
and was so determined to have something
out of life.

I always wanted to take his kids'
places.
The nice clothes that didn't smell of cats,
the go-karts and swim lessons and
swing set and pool.
They had it all.

I modeled myself after this Uncle.
I'm going to have something.
Now I do.

xi. Kitchen Floor
I laid in the kitchen floor
at my Sister's trailer
for several hours.
I cried, maybe.
I didn't speak, I just
laid there.
Catatonic.

This is the first thing that
came to mind when I started
realizing the sickness in my mind.
A first clue, if you will.
All of the others fell into place
quickly afterward.

xii. Step-Father
It all started so perfect,
how could there be a demon in
this kind and gentle man?

But manic phases happened.
Regularly.

Usually spurred by alcohol.

He would stay up all night,
with *** after ***
of coffee.
Going through every item
in the house.

He and my Mom would scream,
so late,
she telling him to go to bed,
to get the **** out,
to quit messing with ****.
He would call her names
and throw things and make
word salad in the air of money
and get rich quick schemes.

I would pretend to sleep,
most nights I didn't while
he was manic.
I would sleep at school,
and dread the war-zone I'd
step into every day after.

He would finally be arrested
and committed.
This happened for years,
this cycle.

One of the last times it happened,
he put his hands on my niece.
I nearly killed him that night.

He died in a drunk driving
manic-induced spree
not long after.

He was a great man when he wasn't manic.
But that's love.
Through darkness and light.

xiii. Harm
I went through these years
filled with hatred and recklessness.
Lines on my arms,
and a barrel in my mouth,
but I came out the other side.

I know the dark times are here
when I regret not pulling that trigger.

xiv. Missing Father: Unneccessary Hardships
Things didn't have to be that way,
but maybe we are all better
for the suffering.

xv. Driving
I learned to drive by taking my Sister
back and forth to hospitals
because she was fiending for pain meds.
I watched her toss pill after pill down
her throat
for years.
"Migraines."
Aka, withdrawals.
She would scream and incite chaos
until she got her fix.
An addict.
It was not my Sister.

She attempted suicide multiple times.
Eventually the chemicals were too much,
she had a stroke.

I thought I was going to lose her,
my dear Sister.

She's clean now, and
I've never been more proud
of my big Sis.

xvi. A Final Word
My life was not hard,
no harder than anyone else's.
But it was mine.
I look at this myself and say
"oh boo hoo," in contempt of myself,
but it was real.

Somewhere, hidden in this
half-missing puzzle, is the
answer to the question on my
warped views on love and life.

This is my narrative,
these are my beginnings.

There is a dark place you will go,
a place where we've all been
at one time
or another.
A place where clichés come true,
where nightmares turn to reality,
a place where your worst fears,
your deepest insecurities,
will tower above you.
It is a place you will visit
when you have been drained
emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally,
but must keep moving forward.
A place that does not discriminate
for anyone,
a place that is the great equalizer.
You will not be able to breathe.
Your lungs will be filled with soot,
your eyes will be branded in fire,
your mind will be captive,
you will want to quit.
You may even want to die.

But this place holds a secret.

You will fall to your knees
on tough soil and gravel,
blind,
and you will cry, you will scream.
The air will be as fire,
and your skin will be as ice.
But you will dig.

You will blindly ****** your fingers into the cold Earth,
you will search for a way out,
you will rip and bleed and tear,
and you will convince yourself
it is futile.
But you will not stop.

You will keep fighting.

This place holds a secret.
This place holds an opportunity -
an opportunity for growth.

And, yes, you will grow.

You can see the effects,
but you cannot feel them.
No matter the amount of understanding,
in this, I am forever alone.
I try to remain strong, I try.
But the demons,
the fire and the darkness,
ruthlessly tear me apart.
And as much as I want to believe
I can control it,
they are separate               from me.
Once they take hold,
all I can do is reach for sanity,
which eludes so tortuously.
As the feeling creeps into my very soul,
I watch you, my friend, my lover,
become my enemy.
Your intentions seem vague and
sinister. Your motivations morph,
frightening and unreal.
I struggle,
against the demons.
THEY ARE WRONG.
I know you, they do not.
So they turn on me,
I am the *******.
I am the useless scumbag.
A willing sacrifice to be made
for you, my friend, my lover.
Are not my enemy.

I can feel it.
The wind which caressed your face
brushes by me
and leaves me
breathless
again.
The miles are not real,
state lines and roads apart,
but not
in all the same.
The sun sets and I see
your face in the sky
and feel your arms
around me.
You are still so close.
Days pass
and we fly through the sky
while the moon bears its stolen light
onto the ocean floors,
and the waves carry your
laughter and your words
over the sand and grass and
into my ears and over my
mind
and the sun rises with
a gentle and calming touch
into my arms and over my
body
to start the day
and I find
that you are still
not so far away.

It rained for three straight days
during my first visit
to you.
Fitting. I should have expected as much.
Especially if it corresponds to your happiness,
I can only be more thrilled
about rain
and what it brings down with it
and the slates it washes clean.

We drank with reservations
and read poetry with gusto
and fell to the floor with love
as the thunder clapped across the
valley
and the rain poured from our skin.

You are small,
not even close to helpless,
but I would face down anything
so that your hands may stay and fit
so delicately in mine and
so your lips would find mine
again.

When we met, finally,
and I felt your frame fall into mine,
trusting me enough for that
so soon,
I was honored,
and I knew that the fears I had
about what this would be like,
what you might be like,
what we might be like,
were unfounded,
and very complicatedly so.

Wouldn't it have been easier
to despise the other?
But no,
instead we fell into rhythm
as if we had never been out of sync,
we fell  into and onto each other
time and again
in ways that could only be described as
perfection.

I saw you gaze onto me
with a mystique only Picasso himself
would be able to render,
so I lost myself in your eyes
with words I've known for
long and with thoughts I could
finally say.

It rained for three straight days,
but on the day I left
the sun beamed through the sky.
So I left,
with kisses and kind words,
and it wasn't until I was on
the excruciating road back
that I realized
I was leaving home
for the second time
in only one trip.

I have wandered a street.
A long and lonely street.
There were people, of course.
Wanderers too.
But it was still,
just a lonely street.
There was a chill in the air,
and the ever falling mist.
It was dark, lonely, and cold.
The people were just people,
so I was still alone.
I made acquaintances,
many of them,
along the way.
But I never meant much to them.
Nor they to I.
Because they were just people.
They could not understand me.
The could not love me.
And I never understood them either.
And loved only a select few
that I thought were different.
I walked with them.
We walked together.
But we were always different.
Yes, I loved them too much.
Perhaps I still do.
But we always walked different paths.
Except for you.
We crossed paths,
many years ago
when I was discovering myself.
We walked a while,
we talked a while.
I knew you were different,
even then.
Something was between us.
I felt it,
and I knew you did too.
You professed that it was love.
And indeed it was.
For a while afterwards,
we walked together.
But then something happened.
My path diverged.
Or maybe it was yours.
Either way,
we both walked alone.
The road became treacherous.
That dark and lonely road.
I was overcome with loneliness,
soaked to the bone in misery
and heartache.
I was molded in ways
no soul should ever experience.
But I endured.
I learned many valuable lessons.
Most of them the hard way.
I fought my own demons,
again and again and
again.
During this time,
our paths converged several more times.
We walked together again,
for some too brief times.
While our paths were split again,
I tried to survive you
with others.
But in my heart,
I always knew it was futile.
They were never different.
Not the way you are.
They were never..
you.
And I walked on.
On and on.
For what seemed like forever,
down the long and winding road.
I stumbled, I fell,
I hurt, I cried,
until I realized.
It's you.
I need you.
Our paths once again converge.
We are walking together again.
Hand in hand.
Together.
Finally, I accept that we are meant
to walk together, to talk together,
to laugh together, to live together,
to love together,
down this road.
Forever.
And, although my demons still haunt me,
at least I'll never face them alone
again.
And, though my road is still
terrifyingly dark,
at least I walk it with you.
I've found you.
Finally.

It's no longer a mystery.
This...thing.
This thing that plagues my mind
with the ups and downs,
ups and downs.
and downs.
I've wondered so long,
the root of my insanity.
And now it has a name.
An identity.
They call it..
Cyclothymia.
A mental disease.
And truthfully,
I don't know what to make
of the newfound knowledge.
To be happy,
or to be sad?
It is strange
to think of it as a handicap
when it has become
an integral part of who I am.
And yet, I have wished.
Oh, how I have wished
it away for so long.
No, I am not this disease,
it is just part of me.
But who am I without it?
This thing...
This..
Cyclothymia.

I would give you everything,
yes, every piece of me,
and wish to give you more.
I wish I could describe it to you,
the amount of love I feel.
Maybe quantify it, so
we can visualize it.
Is it a million, a hundred million?
Maybe infinity and more.
The word "love" is just not strong
enough. So how do I tell you?
Adoration, and passion, and lustfulness,
and fondness. All of these words, no,
none of them are powerful enough.
So maybe my own word is
an order, for who is to say
I cannot?
Lishvilnesh!
Hesmelah!
Bakeldohm!
I cannot describe the amount
of love I have for you, so
it must be lishvilnesh! I'm
overcome by hesmelah! I cannot
contain the bakeldohm!
Ah, but it is not so easy,
for it would take hundreds of years to
attach such weight to a word, and
infinitely many more
to attach my feelings
for you.

Find the hardest possible thing
you could do,
and do that,
the heaviest possible thing
you could lift,
and lift that,
the most taxing responsibility
in your grasp,
and take that on.

Do you think it is by pure chance
that warriors are forged in fire?
What of their blood sacrifices?

Challenge your barriers;
do not let them sit indeterminable.

Life is not the pursuit of happiness;
life is the pursuit of the cessation of suffering.

Do you think love is a blessing?
In some ways, perhaps,
but let's not forget the responsibility
we must bear
when another soul is entrusted to us.
What greater compliment is there than that?
To say, you, no matter your faults and troubles,
you are the person in which I will spend my life with,
come hell, come the high waters of the flood,
you are the only one I want.

And to bear children, to bring children into
a dismal world such as this,
filled with wretched suffering and anguish,
such a thing is not an act of foolishness
when undertaken voluntarily,
it is an act of supreme courage.

We are not meant to be happy in this life,
we are built for struggle,
to strive and to break through the top soil
and reach the light of day.

We must bear our cross,
however heavy,
however unfair,
and continue on.

Give them some time.
Website design is not that easy.

Writing is a narcissistic practice.

What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
acknowledged.
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.

There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.

The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.

We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.

Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.

I remember picking up the urn
that held your ashes.
They were so much heavier than
I expected.
I was drunk off whiskey,
and it finally hit me.

You were gone.

You visited me in a dream last night.
We laughed.
We used to do that, remember?
I did something goofy,
you made a comment,
we shared a good chuckle.

You showed me what it means to be a real person.
You had your darkness,
like everyone,
but you had your light as brilliant
as anyone's.

You gave us everything you could,
and while I appreciate it now,
I wish I could've appreciated it more
then.

I blame myself for your passing,
I know I shouldn't.
I just wish you were here
to see things now,
see where we are,
as a family.

I called the sky tonight,
just wanting you to know
that the good so outweighed
the bad,
even if we couldn't see it.

I called, just to say
I love you.

Transfixed in solitude
and consequently bound by
the deepest parts of my shadow,
I've found that the poison I've known
is the poison I seek
and to lay it down
is a sacrifice I have to make.

Days pass and the craving grows.

My choice is either to fall into stupor,
into my blackness inside,
and have my life end by my own hand,
or
nurse my spirit
with shadow fully conscious
without spirits.

In this, moderation will not do.

It's only in refusing the drink
that I have a chance,
a hope,
a sliver of possibility
of showing myself some respect
and saving my own wretched life.

Knowing smiles,
and playful eyes,
dancing into the night
with words rushing past
satin lips overflowing
into small,
but meaningful silences.
A light beckoning in the world,
to wait,
appreciate,
its singular illumination,
turning this place
more interesting,
and investing in all the
right places.
In these silly, same,
but so different games
we confess ourselves fully
in actions unveiled,
but tip-toe when
speaking, lest the gravity
of it all come crashing
through our lips.

You are present as a passing breeze,
carrying the scent of lavender,
caressing my waiting hands
with a gentle brush.
But like the wind,
you are felt by
all
you surround,
and you wistfully drift away
before I can breathe you in.

I locked eyes on you.
This is who I was in love with.
I hugged you close,
my dearest friend.
               Would you like to build a fire, you asked.
               A fire? Why, but of course!
               And so we set out.
               We gather wood, we gather kindling.
Harmless flirting, too-long glances.
What are we in for?
What are we doing?
It's dangerous, yet I can't stop.
Neither can you.
               We set up the fuel, we're ready to burn.
               I strike the match, and throw it in.
               A beautiful baby flame starts growing.
               I feed it all the small things.
               What a hungry little flame...
We are sitting there,
me lying down and you sitting directly in front of me.
Finally, after much wondering from me,
you lie down,
and allow me to wrap myself in you.
My mind eases, body relaxes. Sleep.
               The baby isn't such a baby anymore.
               There are coals forming,
               and the flames grow larger.
               We throw in more wood. Bigger wood.
               The flames struggle to break it down.
               But it's only a matter of time.
We are lying about again,
watching a film.
Otherwise known as an excuse to hold each other.
More harmless flirting about.
And then it stops, we are still.
This is the time, so I kiss you.
In that moment, my world is flipped, my life changed.
               The flames are scorching now.
               The coals red hot with a ***** brilliance.
               We throw more wood into the inferno,
               but it's not enough.
               We throw in more and more and more.
               And the flames rise, rise.
               The heat is overwhelming...but so welcome.
We kiss
and we love.
We kiss
and we love.
We kiss
and we love.
We kiss
and we love.
               The fire burns,
               so we let it burn.
               The fire burns,
               so we let it burn.
               The fire burns,
               so we let it burn.
               The fire burns,
               so we let it burn.
Now it is time to go.
I say my goodbyes.
Say that I love you,
one last time.
               The flames are out,
               the fire is gone.
               But a hot fire means hot coals.
               So now there is but one question:
               how long can the coals smolder?

Never the one with a safety net,
having to move quickly, silently,
and calculated.
In a house pulling me into
depression,
further than I could pull myself,
I refused.
Never to be trapped into
ammonia soaked walls and
defeated thinking of years
past,
a "golden child,"
I moved on.
How it hurt to hear those words,
from someone that has
never been hungry,
never realized that the hunger
never fades and that I
never had a choice.
It was get up,
get out, stay moving,
or die
forever.

I will stumble over my words
while I stumble
into you.
Show me where you are wicked,
and I will show you
mine.
Let me taste the pitch black
ink as it drips from
your lips,
and you can read to me
the thoughts you hold
close.
Take me to the place within
where you are not pulled
into a thousand directions,
that one place where
you are still,
that one place where
you are home.

I know that life is unfair,
and certainly it is cruel.
We've all been dealt
different hands.
All of them,
with their own special
advantages and disadvantages.

It would be wrong, to say,
I know how you feel.
Because I don't.
I can't even imagine
your life.
I can't begin
to even comprehend.

I do know this, however.
It's true what they say,
that, this too
shall come to pass.
And no pain shall last
forever. So, that being said,
stand firm.

And know this:
You are stronger,
than you can ever imagine.
You are the best there ever was,
and the best there shall ever be.
There is nothing,
NOTHING,
that can withstand
in the presence of your greatness.
So, if you're going through hell,
keep going.
For if there is darkness,
there surely is light.
And if there is light
then it must surely be me,
for I love you,
my beautiful, sweet,
Marie.

Lying here, I reach out
Expecting.
There is nothing.
You.
You are hundreds of miles away.
And, though it feels,
Feels as though you are beside me,
Where you belong.
Expecting...
You.
Yet, there is nothing.

Sleeping, I reach out
Expecting yet again.
Still nothing.
You.
You sweep through my dreams
And I feel,
Feel your arms around me.
Where they belong, calming.
Expecting...
You.
Yet, there is nothing.

Come back to me.

I'm not over anyone I've ever begun to love.
People always say they loved someone,
but I always stay present tense.
I always love.
If once, then always.

Weaving words,
so carefully. Every
syl
la
ble, crafted.
Spectacularly
laced, though the
unforgiving blue lines.
Wonderfully
chased by the
deadly silent black pen.

These words,
meaning or no?
Mischievous and
deceiving. Or
hopeful and
believing?

Where do they go?
Where do they lead?
Follow them, yet
could they be
seen?

Fortitude and fragility.
Miles apart, yet
undeniably the same.
In the world of words,
it's all just a game.

Coincidental rhymes, and
sentimental times, or
simplistic virtuosity, and
complicated philosophy?

These worlds in words,
are never as they seem.
But who are we to judge,
when the words in the world
are never what we mean?

Seems the only escape,
Under all of this pressure, walking
In these shoes,
Craving some sort of release,
I'm cracking under all of the weight,
Dreaming of my one and only
Escape.

I'll send a nice message
straight through the wires
with the bird outside my window.
I'll wrap the paper up
with a nice little bow
and a short piece of twine
for him to carry onward
to speak into your mind.
He'll make it in the morning,
I know he surely will
to be there when you wake up
to tell you how I feel.

This cooling air brings peace to my bones,
settles me into the chilly night like
a leaf resting upon the soil beds of
tomorrows.

The Earth has swallowed my sorrow,
my bitter bile and writhing spirit
in the yesterdays and days
to come.

No longer do I fight for flight,
and my intentions always see the light
of truth and the open air of what’s
in store.

With open hands I have released
what it means to hold closely the thorns
of whimsy and doubt and accepted the gift
of more.

It’s been a long journey, yes,
but I am still moving.
I don’t understand how to accept kindness,
and I’m sure I’m insensitive —
I’m getting there.
I’m moving past years of resentment,
piles of bitter, stinking trash and ****,
to being able to give
as well.

I’ve always been bashful about those
being kind to me,
and doubly so when I am kind
to others.
I am kind without an audience.
Certainly it stems from feeling unworthy
if kindness received,
and feeling my kindness is an unworthy
reciprocation.
Sometimes it’s self-fulfilling.

Up until recently in my life,
I’ve never been able to give anything physical.
I’m still trying to understand if I’m
emotionally bankrupt,
so that’s uncertain.

My birthday is soon, and Christmas is coming.
December always forces these feelings into light,
but I’m still making progress on them
year by year.

I write this as she sleeps
next to me, with me,
but not with me,
as a testament to the light
she spreads across my pages,
chest moving
in and out,
in and out,
breathing kindness into
these words with her own.
The object of my attention,
affection,
she will rise tomorrow
to the surprise of post-midnight
poetry, hopefully
bringing a smile to her face
as she does mine,
and our small habits
across hundreds of miles
unfold
to become larger rituals,
grander ceremonies,
separated by mere inches.

The pressure drops,
and the leaves begin to
swirl around a dusty lake.
Fire in the sky
rolls in with the clouds
riding a difference between a
splitting of hot and cold.
The hot air ***** the rain
further,
while the cold air cushions
and pushes
further.

In another distance
a similar storm brushes in
with a deep wind that
has carried it across an ocean,
to pull in more water
to travel
further,
pushed by the cold of what
is behind
and pulled by the heat
of what is ahead.

These two of a system
meet over this lake
and crash together,
like two gas giants.
The Earth shakes,
the lake creates waves,
and a look above shows
the funnels coming down.

One of pure chaotic wind,
and another of raw destructive water.
Trapped by each others
opposition
and support,
they dance across the lake,
lifting the leaves
and spinning
the weight of their composition
into one another,
until finally
they merge into a
brief or non-brief
union,
pull into the sky
as it splits apart,
breaks the storm
and leaves
clear skies.

The sweet burn of alcohol,
still on my lips.
The rustic smell of cigarette,
through the warm summer air.
The white page before me,
with meaningless scribbles.

For I am but one soul,
meant to burn.
Meant, because I have committed crimes,
crimes I do not yet know of.
And yet, I'll know of them.
Yes, I'm sure I will when I die.

I am cursed, you see.
Cursed with a vengeance on this world.
A world that has so wronged me,
that my heart will never forgive.
Cursed with endless work,
for I shall never quit.

How often, I sit and wonder,
If this world is hell,
and each of us has committed some terrible crime.
But that cannot be so,
for I know of those who live
fat and luxuriously without a care.

Maybe this is my own hell.
Maybe it is all in my mind.
This entire world, inside my mind.
My own little world, created
from my own thoughts
to punish my eternally.

But no...one must avoid such thoughts.
Thoughts of the world revolving around oneself.
Maybe, yes, maybe
I am here, along with all the others,
only to pass the time.
(There is a word here that can't be made out because it's been smudged. It might be "Religion?")

Why are people so certain,
Certain that there is more than this life.
But what if there isn't?
What if this is all we have?
And this one, fleeting, life,
is all that we have to make our mark?

How could it be such,
that man, a glorious creature indeed,
has nothing special waiting for it?
How could it be that such a kind, beautiful race,
is nothing but a bunch of meaningless particles?
How?

Oh, but I'll tell you how.
For this is unmistakably a cruel world.
A cruel, unforgiving universe.
So then, why bother?
With anything at all?
What's the point?

So then, why do I write?
I write because I hope.
Hope that one day these words will reach.
Will reach a fellow lost soul.
Hope keeps each of us going,
going, and going.

Hope must not be underestimated,
for it is the very essence,
the very beauty of all mankind.
Maybe, too, it is the curse
of all mankind.
And yet we still hope.

Hope for a better tomorrow,
a better world,
a better fate.
Hope binds, and connects each of us to one another.
We are all the same, really.
Each of us live on hope.

I saw you again last night
in my dreams.
It's been some time since
you've visited.
How are you?
We went all around
this dreamscape,
from lovers and friends,
to nothing
so quickly
as before.
With experiences irreplicatable,
irreplaceable,
even in this world,
the only place you live
in my life,
anymore.
How you touched my mind
as carefully
as you tore through my past,
and wreaked havoc
upon my future.
With your irrational expectations,
my sleep-induced brain
turned them into monstrous
representations while I dreamt,
still,
all this time later,
trying to find out what went
wrong.
Knowing, that
still,
where ever you are,
you still love me.

I long for you in the way the night
struggles to envelop the Earth daily,
in the ways in which I fear
my words will never be enough
for your crystalline heart.
I want to fall like raindrops
into your hair on Sunday morning,
when it is time for me to go,
and there are clouds in your eyes.
I have prayed for you eternally;
hold me close and I'll wrap you
into me as the daylight fades to dark.
Let us never know another lonesome night,
not until we are old and frail
and content with the life we have lived.

I just wanted the rain to fall.
Soak me through.

It is only human to love.
I’ll make no apologies
for my currents and currencies.
For also
revealing my humanity.
I know many dark facets
of this existence.
I know what it means to fight
and to love.
Sometimes they are the same.
Maybe it’s all I’ve ever known.
I’ve bore the consequences
of my desires
and been born again
time and time
again.
I am no stranger nor victim
to the raging infernos
of this life.
We were born to confront
the chaos of this world
and turn it into love.
It is only human.

A log rests upon a levee.
When will it break?

I'm tired of these lonely nights.
I just want it to end.
Simple words, or complicated,
cannot describe how I'm feeling.
There is no one who understands.
No one shares this pain, this absence
of happiness, this great devoid loneliness.
And no one knows that I'm
feeling this. No one realizes that I'm
slipping. I'm finally sliding into
my madness. What would happen?
If people knew. What if I tell someone?
Would they listen? No.
It wouldn't matter anyway. You, sheet
of paper, white with such straight blue
lines, are my only true friend. I spill
myself unto you. You know all of
my pain and sorrow and heartache.
You. You are the only thing fit
to judge me, yet you cannot. And
that is too fine. As harsh as I
judge myself, I can't imagine
me from outside. I cannot imagine the
brutality that could only come from
you, my love, my only love, my
true savior. And still there is another.
There is another who has
shown me her love. But I
could not, without great repercussions,
write hundreds of thousands
of millions of words upon her flesh.
And I miss her, for her absence
must be (what else could it be?) the
source of this loneliness. Not this
everlasting agony of and in my soul,
no. She is the only one to come
close to you. She is the only person
with the capabilities, the patience,
to ease my hurt. And now I
must go, for she has come to relieve
this lonely feeling. Farewell,
my true outlet.

I have loved you for lifetimes and more -
we have been through many incarnations,
traveled many timelines and shed many
sacrificial tears and unnecessary pretense.
You have bore your soul in mine,
entwined our fates in loving motions,
and sealed our future in simple kisses.

I love you through realms of dreams
and into stark rains of reality,
through all that is to come
and all that is before,
and I know you love me
the same.

All good things come to those who wait.
Maybe, finally,
I have waited long enough
for a chance to have,
for a chance to love.
For a chance to spread my affections
through the great expanse of your heart,
damaged through past afflictions
and bitter memories,
I can soothe.
For I seethe
much the same,
and there is no blame,
to be cast or recast through
the past,
it's a shame.
That one so heart-wrenchingly beautiful,
(but she can't see so)
can be so trodden upon not to
see.
Not to see that it is she
who wanders and floats through many
a dream,
within a dream,
and casts away the sub-standards
of basic human wants
into something of god-like taunts.
And the dreams I have are never-ending.
Not because they don't end,
(Oh, they do)
but because I refuse to let them.
Alas!
I cannot slumber for eternity,
I must wake.
I must face that which is an
inevitability in its own right.
The insatiable desire of the freedoms
that we must not retire,
no.
We must be free to wander forth,
into a darkness, away from the light,
then see a sad soul
and regain to...
fight?
To fight again and again and
again?!
Perhaps we should cease,
if only we could.
We continue all the same (in much the same),
knowing what is to come,
knowing what peers just around
the bend.
Knowing, yet hoping,
against all hope,
that all good things must
end.

Drowning it in,
and down it goes,
with a hook at the bottom
to sink you lower,
and take it all
away.

I've been up for too long,
now it's time to come down.
Maybe face that the ideas
weren't really that good and
wouldn't have made me rich!
(Grandeur!)
Return to my natural state of
ink and guitar strings and broken drumsticks,
and tears,
so many tears as tears on the
pages, and I am
still unable to cry.
Have no doubt though,
they are there.
I'm withdrawing, pushing friends and family
away, it has begun.
I'm agitated. Always.
I wake up ready to scream
because even when I'm asleep I can't
sleep and my dreams are
of guns and terror and fear.
I run, but my body is not trained
well enough to run fast and far
enough to pull this thing out of me.
I'm scared.
But I will make it through,
knowing the next high is just
one low away.