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.

It's like I'm writing letter
after letter after word
after sentiment and sentimentality
to you.
"You"
This elusive love has not left
my bones yet
nor will it ever.
It has seeped into me,
and no matter how many things
I write and say and do,
it is here to stay.
I'll fill pages with you,
thoughts and whispers and prayers.
Maybe, sometime, parts of me will move on,
but the parts I have given to you
will always be yours.

I have found myself tracing timelines in the sand,
hanging off the edge of your lips
as you say my name - say it so,
as you read words you hold close
in midnight hours.
When the world has quieted,
and your voice is all I hear,
I want to be the reason your words transform,
a reason for your heart to rest peacefully
for every night to come.
Lie down, sweet love of mine,
these worlds are yours already.

A giving soul,
I see you
as you give away the pieces
of yourself to those
that need you.
I could take a lesson from that.
My only warning
is to be careful about giving yourself
to those that do not recognize
that pain never comes from the outside,
that they are responsible solely
for their own darkness.
Those people will **** you in,
swallow you whole,
digest your kindness
and turn it to dust.
Trust me,
I used to be one of them.
Sometimes I still am.

We often wrestle with the darkest parts of ourselves in broad
    daylight.

We try to reconcile our good —
what we try to show others —
and our bad — what we try to hide.
Always we find ourselves trapped in this struggle,
caught between the primal reptile urges of the past
and the self-realization that has recently been evolved.

It is in this struggle that all manner of disorders arise.
Disorders - implying that there is a natural order,
an order in which we drive toward,
a perfection that we as a species must achieve,
a final, realized human form.
So it is not that we believe that there is currently perfection,
but that we recognize that if we can define perfection
(a course that first requires defining imperfection)
then we can achieve it as such.

It is in this struggle that we hurt others on all scales,
from lovers to friends to cities and countries.
We rule ourselves, but we need order so we rule over each other as
    well.
We step into the light to offer up the best in ourselves,
an attempt to bring out the best in others,
and on many fronts we succeed,
but on many fronts we also fail.
We destroy lovers, friends, cities, countries, and ourselves.

It is in our nature.
It is the nature of all things,
to evolve and to learn and to get better and to grow.
But as with everything,
we too must struggle,
we too must be destroyed
before we can be realized.

I. Sincerely
To the girl that decided
my time
wasn't worth hers.

II. Declarations
I love you.
I miss you.
I care about you.

III. Present
All I wanted was your
presence,
but you consistently
faded.

IV. Attachment
You wanted me unattached,
but being unattached
I walk away.

V. Conditionally Unconditional
My conditions are
presence
loyalty.
Sorry I lied about unconditional.

VI. Someone
You've got time for someone.
Not me,
but for someone.

VII. Simply Enough
I cannot give my time
for those who do not.

VIII. Giving
You can't ever
get
what you're not willing
to give.

IX. Complete
I love wholly.
I don't switch.
It's all
or nothing.

X. Home
I tasted home upon your lips
where you tasted distance.

XI. Lost
I lost a home.
Another place
I called my own.

XII. Closed Doors
I knocked.
I jiggled the ****.
No one ever answered.

XIII. Small Chapters
I was a page to you.
You were a chapter.

XIV. Discarded
A book forgotten upon a floor.
Pages torn, Chapter 1.

XV. Poetry
I turned you into poetry.
That's what you wanted,
right?

XVI. Past
I will write about you
long after you've been gone.

XVII. Self-Worth*
I may have lost you,
but you lost me too.

I awoke today to a feeling of strangeness such as I have never experienced.
A feeling that I am not me, will never be me, could never be me,
but that I am a disease. A sickness. A plague of the mind.
A feeling of such hopelessness and despairity that my own existence
was questioned. Was ridiculed. Was proven again and again to be pointless.
And I am getting worse, so it would seem. Yes, it would seem
as if I have (finally) begun my slow descent into madness.
I do not welcome such, no, I try to push and keep it at bay,
I try so hard. But I know that it is inevitable,
for what else could there ever be for me? And to you,
run, I say. Run away for I am the sickness, the plague.
Run away, for I will destroy all that you hold dear, and if it is I,
then my. My oh my, the job has already begun!
And my life, what more could be desired? I have worked,
and worked and worked, and am in a marvelous position, but
I am not happy. I feel that my life is wasted on me, and
so, it is tempting to destroy that as well. Why not?
But no, I will try to hold it together. I will stretch
myself so thin that, when I fail, all in
my life will turn to chaos. All will be destroyed. But until then,
I will try. Until then, I will live.
Just as best I can.

You are my morning coffee
and my fade into dreams.

It's your birthday today.
You would've been 56 years old.
You kept me, raised me
when I was young,
worked me
to show me discipline,
and believed me when I told the truth.
You made me apologize when
I had said cruel things,
and helped me love the difference
of others.
You believed in me,
and celebrated my differences as well.

One of my fondest memories of us
is when you baby-sat me on a Saturday.
We went to garage-sales.
You bought me every baseball I could find.
They were cheap then,
but I'd give anything to still have one.

I watched you drum away to many songs,
mesmerized,
knowing I wanted to do the same.
I was often behind your drums,
dreaming of things to play.

Today I sat behind a drum kit.
I've been paid to play.
That makes me a professional, right?
You would be proud.

I broke down today, behind that kit,
thinking of you.
I lied, said I needed a bathroom
when really I needed a floor to cry.

I curled up in a friend's bathroom floor,
and, finally,
felt your passing.

I miss you so much.

Tired mind, tired body.
Chaotic desk, chaotic kitchen.
As sleep escapes the eyes,
but not the mind,
dripping ink half conscious,
stalling.
Staying away from the dreams
which bring tomorrow's
cold reality.
Sickness pushing into the mind,
into the body,
with a dusty desk and
haphazard room in the dark.
We go up, we go down,
never to settle
as does the dust
upon our bones.
Misplaced my peace
(of mind)
at my alter of confidence,
and, once again,
exposed my insecurities.

Anxious.
Like the attachment style.
Becoming involved,
and over-thinking everything.
That's what you called that, right?
Over-thinking
these old insecurities that I can
never seem to
quite push
away
for good
while my pen bears its ink
down into and past the current
page because all my muscles
are tight
and my stomach is
sick
and my mind
is distracted.

You. You. You.

She'll pick you up,
put you down
once she's read your pages
and harvested your words.
Is it true?

I've been discarded before.

Tried to trap the bird,
what a foolish mistake,
and it flew away
leaving my hands full
of ashes.
I've pushed too hard
and clung too tightly
and lost it all
many times.

I get nervous, but I know my center.

I see your wings,
a magnificent ocean blue
which have been carved
through years of struggle.
Never think that I do not.
I would never deign
to clip them.
I would never make that mistake again.

But I, too, have my share of books
which I have picked up,
read fully,
or half-way,
and put down,
discarded.
I have lifted from branches
and flown further
when I've been trapped,
clipped.

I get nervous.

I want to stay,
more than anything,
but there is fire in my wings,
and fire in yours too.
We are certainly
birds of a feather,
so I wonder,
can we not,
could we not,
should we not,
fly together?

I have been ready and willing
to give myself,
my all,
to someone - not just anyone -
that would accept.
I have tried,
been true and honest,
present and willing
and loved in the process.
I'm not ashamed of those I've come to love,
maybe just disappointed
that we wanted different things,
were on different pages.
But I'm sure there's a reason
that will reveal itself in time.
I'm not cynical or bitter.
Maybe I would have been years ago,
not now.
I still put myself out there,
bear my vulnerability for the world.
I am afraid, of course,
as we all are and should be,
but I know nothing great comes
without time.
So, for now,
I'll bear my loneliness
and continue to live
forthrightly
with honest intentions
and careful thoughts.

I do what I do for my family.
If you knew what I knew, you'd be the same as me.
Lovers, haters, the weak, and the takers,
It's all the same to me.
*******, all of you.
All of you are family.

The leaves are turning,
the air cools.
It's Fall.
Loving memories with friends
float through my head.
With the cold nipping
at my fingers.
I cannot think
of a better time of year.

And still...there is something...
missing.
A person,
one I'd so desperately love
to spend this season with.
We could dance
with the leaves falling around
us.
We could tell ghost stories,
by a fire as warm as our
hearts.
Oh wouldn't it be grand?

I throw my cigarette away.
The cold creeping through warms me,
as I think,
of how it would feel to hold you.
I smile at the thought.
Gentle euphoria
fills my heart.
You may not be here now,
but know this:
I'll go to bed holding you tonight,
and you'll fly through my dreams
like the leaves through the air,
my beautiful angel.

Listen to the rain fall,
and, carefully,
unwrap the words that
sit in the air like
raindrops frozen in time,
move slowly,
move slowly into this,
there is no rush
greater than what can come
and, already,
what is.
The sparks of the worlds
in the words shared
ignite
the neurons
fire,
but slowly,
the lightening of the night sky,
and hours late
turns the mind aflame
with just a few
special
moments.
The thunderous clap of a
sharp wit and the ocean
blue that pours from
the sky
and into the
different subjects as
it is time, again,
to grow.

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.

Sideways comments,
subtle degradations of character
masked as jest,
knowing the sliver of truth
that reveals one's thinking,
convenient forgetfulness
meant to pull me lower,
but it won't.

No.

Questioning motives as
I keep my plans,
my moves,
to myself
for fear they will set in
motion more copycats.
I see you all.

Hands reaching from their own
drowning depths to pull
me back under
into the place I
barely escaped from
as it is,
but I won't.

No. I will never return.

I will go further than most of you dare.
I am not afraid
of progress or
your negativity,
it only fuels the fire.

Applying these concepts to everything,
so I must wonder,
what it is she wants
from me?
Friendship, companionship,
words,
I have for free.
These she has from me already.

Though I have no reason
to suspect otherwise,
strategic paranoia
dictates I must
wonder.

Sandpaper teeth,
a slight taste of dark,
bitter coffee grounds.
Ants.
Fire ants in the stomach
biting, stinging,
in acidic bile.
Working into a swollen
and unspeaking throat.
Into the veins and arteries.
A thin layer of sweat,
or rain,
as the cloud follows.
Can they see it?
Tongue, thick and heavy
as a brick sliding into
the windpipe.
Choking, gagging,
suffocating.
Over-active nervous system,
shocked by lightening
from the ever-growing,
ever-looming cloud above.
Shaking, tense, angry,
why?
Neurons firing too fast.
Why?

Dear Sister,
Not Jessica, never Jessica
because we were never on a first name basis.
It was always so much more,
Sister.
My wonderful sister,
you have been my mother, my guide,
my friend, my crying shoulder, my rock,
my humor, my support. You have been
everything.
My sister.
And my only regret is that I can't be more,
I'm sorry.
Oh, Sister,
how I look back on our memories with such fondness.
The laughs we shared, the wonderful books,
and mind-blowing smoke.
The long talks about philosophy and politics.
We have always been ahead in those regards,
haven't we?
My lovely sister,
you took my hand when I was lost, when life
had become too much for me,
and showed me the path. You set me up
to become who I am, and who I will be.
I know you are proud.
You helped me discover what was important,
guided my moral compass when I trespassed,
taught me to love.
You made me see
things I never would have alone,
and consider ideas that the general public
frown upon. We've always been ahead.
Oh, Sister. My Sister.
May you live on
forever.
In my heart, and through me,
in the hearts of others who know not of
your presence,
dear sister.

A smile plays, prances,
around the edge of your lips,
threatening to break through
while you slumber on
in mid-morning hours,
and I can’t help but ask -
what are your dreams made of?

I have lost all inspiration.
Into the night it has fled.
Of love, I have no care to write.
Of darkness either.
There is just a void.
A gaping expanse of inability to express beauty.
An inability to even see it.
And why?
For I am surely as out of love as
I am out of darkness.
And I am surely as truly
blind to beauty as
I am blind to the flaws of myself.
So why? Really, oh why?
Maybe I have been careless, ungrateful.
Maybe I must chase it down.
Maybe.
Maybe it is gone forever.
But then,
so am I.

Where are we going?
Who will we become?
What is our purpose?
When will we know?
An assortment of questions,
in this question shop.
I lay them all out,
for anyone and everyone to answer.
But, alas, they remain unanswered.
For everyone else is either uncaring,
or as confused as I.

Day after day after day,
I lay them out and wait.
While I wait, I wonder,
and wonder more.
What could the answers be?
In questioning,
I only raise more questions.
I sit alone, and the shop goes dark.
The sun rises, and sets.
The moon waxes and wanes.
Time flows on and on and on.

The shop begins to crumble,
the questions become more and more urgent.
I sit alone, and wondering, wondering.
Now I am old and gray,
and the shop is gone,
reduced to nothing but rubble around me.
The questions still stand,
and nobody bothers trying to answer them anymore.
So it would seem that I have wasted my entire life,
questioning only to never receive
any answers.

These words are like
flower petals strewn across
a forgotten floor.
A contrast in a desolate space,
but chew them,
examine them, love them
and see their origins
birthed in poison.
They escape from their captor's
skin through long trailing tendrils
of ink
much in the way
the ***** pollinates the flower
and is never seen again,
much in the way the words are warped
by alliteration and savagely
captive in metaphors
like they belong in a simile
like they belong under the skin
the way a past made up of
a universe
can never quite make
anything whole again.
They don't quite belong in a
barren place such as this,
but can never move,
for  their venomous
cover would surely taint
all that is green and
full of life.
And if a wind, a breeze,
should lift them from
their resting place upon the floor,
they would surely float and dance
along,
in all normality,
in all the ways they should,
and will wither
and shed their toxic pieces
along the way
to cause coughing, sneezing,
and noses ****** like the watering can
that sprouted these
heinous flowers.
And they will fall
again.

My heart aches.
I watch you walk away,
and I think,
This is it.
This is when I give up on love
forever.

I suppose I have always been the kind
to over-commit, to love too deeply.
I have always been the one left
after everyone else quits.
Always left standing alone in the rain
of my own tears.
Always.

I drive those I love away,
and destroy anything I hold dear.
Yet, it is not I, but the monster inside.
The monster is the real enemy,
but the monster is me so I suppose it is
I that am the monster.

Or maybe it is like you said;
We are just blaming the dark beast,
with no consideration of the fact that
we might be wrong for each other.
I don't buy that, though.
You are my best friend.
You are my only true friend.

I snap back to reality.
My thoughts, my perception returns,
and so do you.
You have not walked away, not yet.
I should know better.
I cannot trust my mind.

I try to imagine my life without you.
I try to imagine how alone I will be.
Maybe it is as alone as I am now,
but I'm certain it's more.
I'm certain I would be shaken to my center,
that I'd have my heart ripped from me.
I don't know if I can take it.

And just like that, my mind is made up.
If you must go, you must.
If I must be completely destroyed, fine.
But never again will I invest my heart in someone.
No matter what may happen,
I will never love again.
Never.

And forever and always
always
resolves to never.

You run through my thoughts
like rain,
creeping, seeping,
soaking
me
through.

Let not the wind sweep you away,
let not the trappings of this world
keep you down,
let not the totality of it all
fall upon your shoulders,
and especially do not pin yourself
into negative cycles.

The leaves of seasons past will fall
and surround you completely,
the ice will freeze and melt
onto your numb fingers,
and the sun will rage onto your
skin to blister.

But among it all in the final grace,
you must remember:
you were born to fly,
so spread your wings.

I don’t want to be left drifting again,
compared to shadows when
there’s no comparison
to you.
We speak truth in our actions,
and we have found ours
in the patterns
we behold to the other,
somewhere in the space of
the morning air and the starry night,
we place our whispered thoughts
into the universe to be heard
so that we can ease our troubled minds.
Be mine,
and I’ll be yours,
and let’s run from stepping stone
to trails covered in pine needles
where we bed for the night,
only us,
under the stars and heaven
above.

Sometimes I still long
for the places I used to be,
for the spaces I used to fill,
for the hands I used to hold,
and for the people which used to surround.
But then I look around,
see the places I get to go,
where I am today,
and the world I occupy daily.
I look within to see a healing and serene mind,
free from the whims of self-destructive thoughts,
yours or mine.
I see people that take my shortcomings
as I take theirs,
with love and steady comfort,
and I long
no longer.

The smell is in the air,
how everyday odors have become
suddenly
more pungent than they were before.
I recognize this.

Time is warped,
it slows to a crawl in front of me.
The birds stop in mid-flight
their songs hung in the sky
from little strings
in the heavens.
Things move so slowly
but all too fast
at the same time.

I am simultaneously inspired
and uninspired
in the same breath,
energetic and lethargic
in the same motion,
thoughtful and dull
in the same sentence.

The routine kills, it's time to
shake things up a bit,
time to change the layout,
change the scenery,
change the mind,
change the self.
It's time to learn as much
as possible
and forget everything I've
ever known.
It's time for a change.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,”
a third or fourth grade teacher told this
to our entire class.
For some reason it’s never left me.

Because of those words, I never aim to flatter
and am immediately wary of those
who engage in and succumb to it.
It’s not genuine - I believe that was her point.

So I would rather touch your mind,
notice the small things before they slip
through dusty cracks,
be entranced by the way your hair falls,
and be spellbound by the rhythm
of your words.
I’ll avoid flowery gestures or bodacious words,
instead let me speak truthfully of what I see.
There is no room for pedestals here,
it is your humanity that touches me so.
It’s the trusting way you reveal yourself
despite the teeth of us both.
It’s the way you’re bashful for no reason,
but the reason is there somewhere
unknown to me
I know.

I could compare you to the sun and sky
and all the universe in between,
and perhaps I have and still will,
but in the end
it is your imperfect and unique existence
upon this planet
that I adore so much.

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.

The universe was speaking to you.
Then you stopped listening.

It takes a lifetime to love.
It takes falling through the abyss,
being torn to nothing,
and still fighting for someone
after everything
to love.
Love is not easy,
nor is it always kind.
Love tells the truth
when the truth is not desired.
Love is easy to fall into,
easier to fall out of,
and nearly impossible to maintain.
But let it guide you and you’ll see:
love will ask but will also give,
love remains while all else fails.
Love will not conquer,
but instead will guide.
Love will persist
when all else dies.

I. Root — Survival — Fear
My deepest fear is that
I am not good enough,
and never will be.
I fear that I am unable to
love
and that's what makes me
unlovable.

II. Sacral — Pleasure — Guilt
I blame myself still
for your passing.
Maybe if I had thought,
if I had been less self-involved,
to tell you about the car.
Maybe you would be here.

I cheated on you,
the only time I've ever cheated.
You shouldn't have had
to bare such pain
because of my foolishness.

I thought being with you
would finally let me be over
a heart-break.
Now I see that I hadn't
moved on
far enough,
and I'm sorry for its effects.
At least I made a friend.

I wish I could help my family
more.
They deserve so much better,
and I promised to help,
but the further I come
the more I realize
I must help myself.

III. Solar Plexus — Will-power — Shame
I am ashamed
that I am not stronger,
that I don't have the courage
to take the path less traveled.
I have been safe,
strategic,
in my life-choices.
Maybe I've had to be,
but maybe that's an excuse.

IV. Heart — Love — Grief
I've lost some people
along the way
as all of us have.
I know I hold on to parts
of my pain,
I know I keep it chambered.

I should have told
all of you
I love you.

V. Throat — Truth — Lies
I have my ego in check,
that is perhaps my greatest lie.
I like to think I do,
I fight against it,
but sometimes it swells.

A part of me is ready
to settle down,
become a Father,
but I don't know if that
is a truth.
A definite truth is that
I must be free.
How can I have both?

VI. Third Eye — Insight — Illusion
This world is an illusion.
We are all the same,
and all of the stars in the sky
are the same
as us.
Everything is connected,
everything is one.

VII. Crown — Cosmic Energy — Earthly Attachment**
I must let it all go,
those I love,
those I've lost,
fear I've felt,
shame I've harbored,
lies I've told,
grief I've formed,
and let the
illusions shatter.

I do not pass in this world idly
for there is much to do.

I do not hold on to ideas or others or myself too steadfastly
for many things do change.

I do not take today for granted
for tragedy strikes without regard.

I do not choose my words lightly
for they shape the world.

As such, I do not take action without careful thought
for that is the mark of destruction.

Finally, I do not aim to judge another soul
for mine is the only I control.

The rain forms rivulets
racing down our windshield,
soft whispers in the night,
promises of the things to come,
morning sons and daughters,
of life given selflessly,
my hand in yours,
writing gentle vows around your finger;
take my name and I'll bear
your burdens as you'll bear mine,
with lace and white veils,
the shields we'll use
******* and bound
across these shifting time lines
with each other
once again.

There's a knot in my stomach,
I don't know what to do.
At this point, your silence is
deliberate.
Your absence is a message.
I want to reach out, but I can't.
No.
It must be you.

And so, I sit and I wait.
For what, I don't know.
A sign, a signal, some
semblance of your existence,
a peek of your thoughts, an
arrangement of your words into
a sentence to form some sort of
sentiment
towards me.

I don't know
what, exactly, I am waiting for.
And I worry, I worry so
I put pen to paper and paper
to fire to destroy my thoughts.
I obsess and I regret those things
I said; I'm sorry.

But **** it, you know?
I can't let you go unless
you let me go, so
I sit and imagine
you already have.
Talking to another, in love
with another, in bed with another.
It can't possibly be true, you wouldn't.
I know this.

But these thoughts torture me.
What does it all mean?
Where is the meaning?
Is this what you wanted?
It's fair, if you do.
I just want to know what
to do so I wait.
I wait.
While my thoughts turn my
stomach to knots.
I wait.

If only
I was able
to follow
my own advice,

I breathe a sigh of relief
As I hear you let out a deep
And raspy breath -
The day has conquered your mind
And finally
You are asleep

I have sealed my life
Into yours
A promise to serve and cherish
To nurture and care

As you are content
As am I
As you suffer
So must I

Content in your presence
And inspired by your life
Your treasured soul

Sleep

All I wish is to be in your arms again.
Safe, and secure.
I just want those late nights,
with wonderful conversation.
To wake up to a kiss,
with an angel,
whose lips are as soft as satin.
To kiss,
say I love you,
and to kiss again,
with our bodies melded into each other,
forevermore.
To sit and rub your back,
relieving the stress of life
from your muscles.
I want to kiss your neck,
softly,
just one more time.
To have your head on my chest,
and to fall asleep,
cradling the only thing I'll ever need,
my diamond amongst the rubble.
To see into those eyes,
which hold so much pain,
and yet,
still so much love.
But,
you're a thousand miles away.
So, for now,
I send all of my love,
all of my heart,
to you.
Until we meet again. <3

You'll have to forgive me;
I've begun to move slower
in my older age.
No longer am I filled with fire
and the willingness to set aflame
all that is around me.
Now I am of rumbling, slow-burning
coals,
the type of which men cast
swords passed down through the ages.
Love to me is no longer a
keen sting --
nor do I want it to be --
but instead it is a soft dedication
expressed through an intermittent presence,
not through flowery acts or syllables.
I do not move so fast now.

From twenty to twenty-four,
only four short and long years,
but much have they taught,
and much have I listened
and much have I not.
But I am more careful now
in the affairs of life and love.
Not so quick to destroy,
but much quicker to understand.
Most times,
but I'm still learning
slowly
that when you know anyone enough
you will reveal your humanity
and they, too, will reveal theirs.
And I would rather have mine understood
than judged
as would we all
so I take my time,
I do my best to understand
and not to judge.

Sometimes things take awhile,
so I move slowly these days.
Forgive me.

Looking back,
I think our main issue stemmed
from the fact
that we completely skipped being friends,
and instead jumped headlong into,
what was supposed to be,
a lifetime commitment.
We never learned each other
as friends,
as separate people that,
sometimes,
require space to be themselves
by themselves.
As people that catch up when,
and only when,
the rest of life will allow.
We are both too independent
to be dependent
or contingent on
anyone
or anyone's schedule.
For a long while
I thought (consciously) I was not guilty,
but I know that I,
too,
tend to lose myself into relationships.
I think we did it backwards —
from relationship to friendship —
but at least
we are
friends.

One day, when I am very old, I hope to hand off my many poetry-filled notebooks to my grandchildren in hopes they are able to read and see and understand that, though life’s suffering often comes from within and at other times tragedy is to blame, there are enough good moments, blessings, and miracles between it all to live a full and long and good life.

Dreams of you -
a person never even met.
Chased around a thrift store,
second chances abounded.
A house promised and built
at the foot of a dam,
we knew better.
What monstrous water
should drown us
in our longing,
cracks shown in words
and walls.
It's like the subconscious mind
knows all along
and produces images of
your words before they are
consciously digested.
How can you be found
in dreamscapes and a spotless mind
when you have been lost
in reality

Do not elevate each other to Gods,
place each other on pedestals
claiming goodness only
and beautiful soul
without the means to harm.
Do we not know that
every light contains a dark?

It is in these Winter months
that I tend to grow.
When the ground is barren
and the leaves have fallen,
in the sodden soil,
amongst the muck
and silver snow,
where love toils
and the past makes mockery,
as if the acknowledgment of
my old home, cold and damp,
is not enough to take
seriously where I'm from.
Where floorboards creak,
sighing from the weight of
heavy steps throughout
the years,
the pipes freeze, then burst,
then freeze again,
and we wrap them in blankets
we would otherwise wrap
ourselves,
victims of harsh months,
cold air and throats sore
from yelling into the
weary night.

We discovered this love,
what would come to be
our love,
as one would discover a treasure.
An unthinkable blessing
washed up upon a shore
and buried by time's
relentless sands.
A laden chest full of golden
memories and heavy with
endless possibility,
unlocked and free and
all for us.
We held no treasure map,
maybe stubbed our toes,
but found it
just the same,
this eternal gift from the sea,
this eternal love.

That I should hold tight
to these rampant thoughts
and frivolous and disconcerting
emotions.
That I should strangle them out,
extinguish their life completely,
leave them withered and drawn up,
tucked away in some far corner
of my mind.
That I should provide a steadfast
and assuring bedrock from which
to build a long and happy life
and to lay upon the dusty
traps of years past.
That I should be the place
you can lay to rest your head
and your fears and loneliness.
That I would put them to bed
with my own of which we seldom speak,
and kiss the harshness
from your lips each night.
That I should protect you in spirit
and in arms and in mind
such that you may blossom wild and free.
That I should cherish you in your
pure, unyielding and driven spirit.
That I should love you,
wholly, without reservations,
without conditions,
for everything you are.

I can tear myself to pieces,
it is a natural place for me.
I can and I will and I'm better
than I was but I'm worse still.
I can splinter myself and let every
doubt burrow itself into my open skin,
let the insecurities bloom into
harsh and wicked flowers,
let the bile rain into my poisoned mind.
I am precise with my agony,
following the loose ends to their end
and mine and fraying the
cord in between.
I do not mean to, but the issue
presents in its encroaching way
and I see no path but the
truth.