It is time to rest,
give your burned-out heart a break,
a chance to accept something
the years have aged to be
just this -
a path to respite,
a cozy cottage and a warm pillow
to lay down your unraveling thoughts,
you are safe here.
Feel the Autumn air pass your lips,
form a cloud of mist
in the chilly air,
falling to rest upon the shape
of your body -
the peaks and valleys of this life,
the alters to pray for the future,
a place where the dreams of more
are true.

Today is your birthday.
I always got to be your age for
12 days.
We had years I threw away
like everything.
12-22.
The pin to my old phone for a
long while.
So simple,
people asked why.
I always shrugged it off.
How do I explain to people
that I carry around pieces of
everyone I ever love?
That I can point many changes
in my life
to a certain person?
That I never shed a person
completely, and
that I think of every lover
daily?
You helped me quit smoking.
Another showed me how to hang
on to those we love loosely.
Yet another taught me
the destructive power of anger.
I dream of them all regularly.
I dreamt of you last night.

I suppose we all carry the memories
of everyone, but especially the ones
we love.

New year, new goals,
new places, new faces.
Stripping down the error of
how I've been, those I've
wronged, becoming gentle,
taking care of the self.
Forgiving the foolish things I've
said to unfoolish and foolish people,
simple-minded things I've done,
and those I have irreparably
pushed away.
I lost some people last year.
Some I should have,
some I shouldn't.
But mostly should have.
"Forgive easily, never forget.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
When someone shows you who they are,
believe them."
I regret nothing.
I had to be in all of those places
to be here,
to be present in a mind
that knows what it wants
and knows peace.
No longer at war with myself,
I still can't see where I'm going,
but I have quit destroying myself
along the way.
I can and do love,
and those that have not seen it
are still warring with themselves.
And to the first and only person
that has seen my love,
as it really is, love,
I should have believed you.

I want to roam the city streets,
forget what we've been through,
dance under the orange beams
of streetlights casting
shadows into the night,
sway to the hum of
a melody knit into
bricks shifting underfoot.
The thrum of downtown
rises to the surface,
matching the shuffle of
anxious strolls and cautious steps.
We can tuck ourselves into
the far reaches of the lone alleyways,
hidden from the sight of the passersby,
the forgotten places where
no one else dares to roam.

In this night, tonight, and further
we may choose to lose ourselves
and find ourselves
beyond the indistinct chatter
and the natural breath
of a city soul as restless as ours.
Masked by the moonlit clouds
and distant train cars
settling in an uninhabited freight yard,
we are riding the tracks,
one step forward into the next,
teetering with the unknown.
If we are careful
we can catch a glimpse of tomorrow
looking backwards as we go,
so say you will.

A slight, pause, and then she alights upon the branch,
of a willow,
a Willow.
A recess in the rambling of her quickly, flitly
paced life.
A momentary reprieve from her star-guided quest for
truth.
She knows the journey, yet not the
destination.
Of woes and proclamation, and strength within
frustration.
She waits.
For the second-wind, the second-coming,
the stars to fall into the midnight sky so that
she may be guided to the...
truth.
The truth of what is and isn't and what will
come to be,
she lifts
her wings,
spread wide.
See her dance across the florid sky in sweeps
and dips.
Watch her fly, fly, fly,
far away, o'er the horizon.
But she comes back to me, yeah.
She always comes back to me.

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.

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.

My Dearest Marie,

As I write these words, you
are hundreds of miles away from me, you
are asleep.
For each mile traveled, I felt the hole
of my longing in my heart grow until
it forced my heart to grow too.
Despairing and agonizing, I cried,
for I was sure I had lost you
again.
You never questioned it, to you,
it was something we'd work out, to you
it was unthinkable.
Thanks.
I know now where I stand.
It is with you, heart joined in heart,
miles apart,
until hand joins hand.
And I am so deeply sorry
my resolve ever wavered,
our love I ever doubted.
For I see now,
the further you go,
the more love I realize.
I will love you,
and only you,
to the end of the universe
and back again.
I will love you
until the end of time
and existence itself.
And how I wish I could show you,
my love, the true nature, the actual extent of
my love,
you.
And I wish I could produce happiness,
turn it into a product,
give it to the masses,
but keep the best and most
for you, my love.
And it is as well I am not a God,
for you would be a Goddess and all
would serve you.

So as you are sleeping, and I am too,
my arms will be around you,
precious you, and I will whisper in your ear,
No matter the distance,
no matter the time,
our hearts are as entwined
as the stars,
my dearest Marie.
I love you.

Eric

I have tasted chaos in the wind,
do you feel it?
As it passes through the trees
and scatters
to the ground,
we order these words
as carefully
as we can.
They are washed up,
broken and
like waves,
given back in pieces.

Can you hear me?

Somehow we are
lost in translation,
and I am afraid
we are too far gone.
Driven into the Earth and sand,
taken apart
into scattered remains
as you have been too.
We ask questions with no answers,
wandering into this barren place,
eyes, minds, mouths
seeking reprieve
and harmony.

How could I?

Your lips kind
with warm and soft words
call for parley,
but all I hear are
drowning words
through muddled water
as we choke on the
unbegotten truths
that anchor themselves
so deeply.

Remembering
who you were
always
tells of who you are.

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.

What am I to do now you're gone
Besides sit here all alone
What am I to do now that you don't love me anymore
Besides sit here and become rotten to the core
What am I do to now that it is you I've lost
Besides sit here wanting you back, no matter the cost
Baby, I love you, isn't that plain to see?
We could've weathered anything, you and me
Instead something came between us, what,  I still don't understand
We fell through the cracks like dirt in a hand
"I love you" you say
And you're still saying it, to this very day

Days like today
when the world is too much,
and every sound grates against my nerves,
every responsibility weighs too heavy,
and the only comfort is in these lines,
where it is sheer force of will to move,
to work and seek and to love,
when it is much easier to fall,
to sink and sleuth
into the floor
and let it all go,
I cannot.

You said give me that,
and pointed to the moon.
So I set out,
saddled up,
dressed down, then up
in my space suit.
I built a ship,
grand indeed.
It could carry me
across the universe
and back.
But I don't need that much.
No, not quite.
So I tied a rope to the back,
and set off,
with your picture taped
so carefully,
in my space man helmet.
I launched my ship,
set off to the moon!
It took seven minutes.
Ok, seven and a half.
I landed on the moon,
nothing had gone wrong.
(Told you my ship was grand)
I took the rope,
wrapped it around
and round.
I took off again,
going back to the Earth,
the moon, not far behind.
This time, eight minutes.
We landed,
the moon and I.
There you were,
standing right where I left you.
I looked at you, smiled,
and said, "Tomorrow.
I will bring you the moon
tomorrow."

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.

Cool comfortors on a chilly night
and body heat to soothe,
a lazy morning but a busy day,
a kiss goodbye and a kiss
to sway
into the night below the stars,
a warm and crackling fire
where Winter air meets
our skin.
A sharp word or retort in
loving candor,
an encouraging nod in the times
of doubt.
The pain and loss and the shakes
that come inevitably, and
the joy of gain and new
smiling faces.
This life with all its
complicated grief about,
these things I’d share with you.

There are few words far and in between,
few ways in which to write,
and no way in which to capture
this love.
For I know the truth
and that we have been bound
across and through many
lifetimes.
We have given our all -
you to I and I to you -
placed our fragile hopes in
wanting hands.
I have swum
through the depths of your love,
reached no end,
yet will never drown
filled as though my lungs may be.
You are my life-blood, my hopes,
my dreams, and everything
I have ever prayed for.

Tired
of being tired.
Yet I must continue,
must...endure.
For this is not the end
of my journey, my
time here.
But still...I am
tired.

More
is to come.
So I must pick myself up,
must keep moving...
forward.
There will be rest,
later, when I am dead.
Still...I don't want to do this any-
more.

Trying
myself. In the court
of myself.
Time and time
again.
Failing every single time.
So frustrating,
but I am still
trying.

Time
conquers me yet again.
Beats me down,
turning me into a slave.
A slave to...what?
Misery.
Still, more to come.
It is not my
time.

Fading
into the bleakness of
everlasting darkness.
It swallows my mind,
and weakens my
heart.
Until nothing is left
because I am
fading.

The end
It seems it will never
come.




the end.

I consistently underestimate the importance of relationships in my life.
Perhaps it is not that I've always been alone,
perhaps it is that I drive everyone I love away.
I find it difficult to give my attention to people,
especially when I feel there is much to do.
I always seem to feel that way.
I am too critical of others.
I will never forget (forgive?) a trespass against my person,
and will excuse any trespass I render afterward
as a direct result of the original wrong toward me.
I am vengeful,
and I am good at it.

My family loves me and has never left.
I can't understand why
when I'm not able to give them all I should.

I'm not at the top -- not yet,
but I'm higher than I have ever been,
and many people I love have fallen away.

It is lonely here.

When you put your words
in my mouth, they should come
out fully formed,
articulate.
No half-truths or misguided
motives to speak of.
They should embody the
spirit of what you offer so freely.
You must sound like
someone who wants
to know the depths,
speak like someone
who has tasted sorrow,
and be resolute in the face
of unrelenting tides.
They should burrow themselves
in all the places
I will make you home,
and illuminate the soul
when whispered true.

I did it again,
I didn't fight -
I took less
than was deserved.
Nobody respects that,
not even me.
Too worried to tear
out a throat
to deliver a warning
nip.
How many times
do I have to learn
this lesson?
Too little, too late,
right time
wrong place.
Don't you dare
face me now.
I am rabid,
full of venom,
and craving blood.

I'm just so tired.

I'm so tired of being the
bad guy.
I'm so tired of being the
scape goat.
I'm so tired of being
emotionally unstable.
I'm so tired of being
in pain.
I'm so tired of being
always wrong.
I'm so tired of being the
cast away.
I'm so tired of being the
forgotten one.
I'm so tired of being the
stepping stone.
I'm so tired of being
so tired.

I'm so tired of being.

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.

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.

I remember racing down the streets,
intoxicated, drunk, hammered,
and out of my mind,
chasing party after party
and skirt after skirt trying
to drown the hole you left
in me.

I remember, not so long ago,
chasing down scheme after scheme,
saying mean things,
having no consideration for
anyone's feelings,
and completely denying the
existence of my own,
trying to justify
the holes we left in
each other.

It's hard to understand —
how I'm acting,
the damage I'm causing
in these situations —
until I've come out the other
side.

And even when I do, I still hear
the dark calling me.
It lies at the bottom of this bottle,
and at the top of my
mind,
waiting its turn.

Little, petulant, lying boy
do not trifle in my life -
you know not of where I come,
and I have seen many of your kind.
I have faced your insecurities
where you cannot even bear to think of them.
I have seen your delusional ways,
walked your own path before you.
Do not test me, little boy.
You know nothing of what it means to be a man,
you know nothing of what it takes
to love and to protect those you love.
I would give my life for many people,
who do you care about that much?
Do not deign to consider yourself my equal,
you are outmatched in every possible way.
You take advantage, you lie, you spin deceptions,
how much of your own ******* do you swallow?
You let your darkness consume you,
you are ruled by your own falsified beliefs,
know that I have harnessed mine
and that many parts of me would revel
in the decayed and rotting flesh
of a despicable human being
six feet below.
Take heed, you ****** of the night,
this will be your only warning.

A lot of times I find myself wondering.
What would it be like to drive without stopping,
with no destination?
Could I go fast enough to escape my racing thoughts or
persistent insecurities?
Could I drive far enough to erase my lonely heart or
insistent fallibilities?
Could I find a place where no one knows my name,
especially myself?
Could I lose who I am in the yellow stripes and forget about
my life?
Could the turning of the tires maybe turn this wretched sorrow to
a lesser wretched emptiness?
Could the reflections of the headlights shine bright enough to
protect me from the darkness?
Could the wind blow far enough fast enough to break away
the limbs of old forgotten thoughts?
Could the traffic flow this way or that in such a way to help
me finally breathe easier?
Could the rain wash away the westerly dust from my dry
and thirsty skin?
Could the trees pass by more quickly than the details that I can't
seem to ignore?
Could the radio play every sad song so that the sadness my be
swept from my eyes eternally?
Could it?
Could I finally drive and push past the reality of who I am
and make it to something I do not hate?
Could I?

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.

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.

Intractable debts against my own
observation often leads to
the crumbling of larger structures.
I’ll fix them if able, or
let them seize in midair,
choke on the ash and dust
of what is or hasn’t been said.
Indeterminate motives cage my
actions, a half or whole, an all
or not, a stutter and stop,
and trip over my own self-aggrandizement,
half-stepping into the patterns
I’ve seen before.

I don’t know the weight of your words,
with what truth they carry,
but I assume the best
and that you have tied them up,
written them in fading ink
on homemade parchment,
considered them well,
etched them on the closed door.
I reach for the ****,
intending to see if it’s locked
but cease my motion.
I don’t know your intent,
didn’t know it then,
so chances are I never will.
Maybe you don’t either,
but, in this, maybe is a fracture
across time and
a life I wish to keep whole.
Closure is a blessing
when done with right intent,
but I don’t know you,
so I’ll take it at face value,
assume it is true and good,
and leave doors locked from within
alone.

Haunt me.
Let us not wander too far
but again be feral in our love.
There is much hesitation.
We are both haunted by love past.
Let us chance it.
Let us dare to be rabid in our devotion.
Let us be at each other's throats
and swallow the bitter pride
so that we may hold close one another
again.

You cannot have anything without chaos.

I want to discover the deepest parts of you.
Let me affix myself to your front door
so that I may greet and bid you farewell
always
as you move through this life.
Let us stand strong and forthright
so we can lean on each other
when the storms of tragedy befall us.

You cannot have anything without love.

A simple day, we paddle along.
Wholly unbroken and in
celebratory motions.
The water fills our shoes
and releases the worries of weeks.
Our only focus the miles ahead,
the guardian bird above,
and a man feeding fish.
We laugh and look and laugh
to be reminded of our strong
bridges we pass under and through,
leaving relics of the past burdened
and so broken.
White water turns and stalls us
but we remain,
splish splash, sore arms and
happy hearts
we carry on.

Habits of delusion are not in my repertoire,
or are they?
That’s exactly what a deluded person
would think.
Sometimes my wheels spin against nothing,
open air,
and produce endless possibilities,
is that really only sometimes?
Maybe it’s all the time.
Maybe it’s so much so fast so often
that my thoughts are unreliable,
impossible to untangle,
distinguish from the next,
they just run together
anyway.
Sleep? Who needs it,
I’m on overdrive,
working, thinking,
going
gone

No matter what happened, it was your fault.
I was never to blame, even if I pretended to take some.

I understand how a person would be unhappy with that.

I understand that it's ****** up.

No words can describe my sorrow. I can't even try because...maybe I can't attempt the futile anymore.

Maybe I am not meant to love. So, I will stop.

I don't know who I could love after you anyway. My standards are too high.

I just can't do it anymore.

I give up.

I am defeated.

Walled hearts befallen of tragedy
perhaps need more love than most.

Memories of snow-filled rock caves,
and of following the branches of water
to a faux river,
and becoming hopelessly lost.
Trudging up logging hills,
as the impending storm looms closer
and closer.
Your eyes, clearly,
lost in something we could never
be, but we tried,
didn't we?
The seasons passed too slowly for us
and our wandering, inquisitive
minds.
Stumbling up a road, a hill,
leading to your home,
as you were mine,
wearing gloves of mine
to keep your warmth for myself,
selfish,
knowing it will always belong to
Earth.
Snow angels.

I long for that Wintry, Willowy wonderland
still.

I am full of holes
just like a good cheese

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?

Self-awareness is a virtue
like no other,
so I seek not to excuse anyone
completely,
but some have seen multitudes
of shattering pain,
been through countless nights
of sobbing and wailing and crying,
dark, scared, and alone.
Been through abuses unspeakable,
torn from families,
families torn from them,
torn into them.
Some see tragedy after tragedy after
tragedy
warp their very soul
and never reconcile it with the world.
Some experience the truly malevolent
in others or in themselves,
and are never able to bring it to peace.
Some live in perpetual hells
brought on from themselves
or inescapable circumstances.
And yet, despite all of this,
most are capable of great good
and great love in this world.
It’s a wonder there’s any good
in anyone
at all,
so how do we explain that?

I’m in search of a come-home-to type love,
a partnership of life,
a hopes and dreams type love,
a forgiving and honest love.
One that bends and shapes itself
for the times.
One that laughs and cries
and worries and doubts
but does not waver,
a committed, steadfast,
and dedicated love.
One that builds a home
and encourages in times of apprehension,
supports in times of strength,
and comforts in times of hardship.
The love I search for is neither static
nor simple,
but instead is dynamic
and fluid,
a real, true,
and honest
type love.

Assumptionless we drift
through days, weeks, more,
brought to each other in
an arc over the bottomless
sea
where the horizon is met
with words hanging from
our lips.

Florid skies paint
the thoughts we hold
safely,
given in the midst of
rain falling along
the misty trails
where we entrust
a life to another.

These dream states
slate me for the things
which are to come.
There is only one truth
far away from my current view;
I see all through crystalline goggles.
Please, don't let me fall
into this waking nightmare
and be captured into
the one place I know
again.
I have lifted my words and being
by rooting them in truth,
but I'm still missing something
somewhere.
Somewhere
I am still dreaming.

Looking
back
at it,

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

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.

I mourn(ed) you in pieces
like all others I love.
Denial was brief -
how could I imagine it any differently?
Anger was flashing and red-hot.
Some still remains.
I asked God why
as if I would receive an answer.
I did.
I was cast into a pit,
notably of my own making
as it has always been.
I have reached outward,
but maybe
maybe I'll just stay here.

That butterfly used to love me so true.
See how it flutters, and stutters, and flies?
One time, long ago, it would land on me.
And the meaning, the meter, the soft rhyme,
Would come erupting out, very much like
A cork trying to hold the rumbling sea.

And at the time I was inherently broke.
In such a way I would never be fixed.
The sadistic butterfly loved it so,
And would visit for days and days and days.
My masochistic self never stood a
Chance, but I never minded, no,
I hate me.

But I sought help, I fought self, I bought hell.
The butterfly took off from my shoulder.
It flew off and left my soul to smoulder.
And how I missed it so, I could not
have ever imagined life without it.
And so it continued for a long while.

But I fought help, I sought self, I bought hell.
I could not lose my butterfly again.
See it dance elegantly in the wind?
It loves me, and has returned to bring my
Sweet words into existence once again.
That bitter sweet butterfly,
It has landed.

I can't quite pull myself away
from the chaotic.
Always one foot into insanity
and one foot into order,
seeking what?
Clarity?
Maybe a thrill
like a ******
riding the wrongs until
they become right,
but they never do.
They never do.
But I am at my best
when my mind is in ten
places I cannot be,
and my body struggles to
catch up,
and it never does.
It never does.

What pages do you flow between
like a draft through an open door,
through mine and others’,
a perfect line on an otherwise
smudged page?