Watch carefully as the rain gathers
in the crux between a broken shoulder
and tender neck.
How the footsteps fall as if from the sky
in tandem with the falling rain.
But it’s not something one must be told to see,
for it is easy to crucify the self
amid the muddy steps
where faith must be found.

God hears you.

In the drops on the hair on
the head as in your head
in the clouds
as He is.
So must you be.

It’s time to kneel
in a way which has never been attempted.
It’s time to recognize the conception is whatever
you conceive of Him to be,
and that it matters not the form.

Eliminate your suffering as the Buddha has.

The water exists,
it soaks you through and
comes from within without.
But there is always warmth,
it only must be found.
As such the four noble truths
set to a path known for years.

The time of ingesting poison must
come to pass
or death must come sooner.

You can’t do this alone.

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.

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

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

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.

I feel so far behind.
It eats at me,
fills me with envy,
fills my throat with bile.

My friends, family,
are just given things.
I mean, that's what family does, right?
They create a support system,
and help each other.

I barely had hand-me-downs.
Even now, if I want something,
I have to buy it.
There's no one I can mention it to
that might get it for me
as a gift.
I've earned nearly everything I have.

I know it sounds silly.
I'm not even materialistic,
but I feel so far behind.
I see people doing things at my age,
**** I want to do,
but can't
because I'm still trying to earn my way
to where they were
in high school.

I am the support in the family.
I always have been.
I know it's selfish,
but where's mine?

I feel so far behind
with no one around
to lend a hand.

Face your fears
or have them face down you.
How can you not even face me?
You run like a child,
do not.
Instead of fight
you take flight
and reveal truer colors yet unseen.
There must be a lesson for me here as well -
in what ways have I been running?
In what ways have I failed
to be truthful
in action and in words?
A question presented
and an answer revealed.
I did not flinch,
I did not waver
in the revelation of your feelings
truthfully shown,
but I have been cut deeply
and taken to my knees
in these darkening hours
to ask God
why?

“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.

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.

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.

Some days I am not who I could be -
I ignore things that shouldn’t be ignored,
don’t fix things that should be fixed,
sacrifice my health in favor of comfort.
Some days I am weaker than others -
my own worst critic, my potential is limitless,
but my time is limited.
I get so passionate
about twenty different things and
pull in twenty different directions
and then do none of it.
I’m scattered in what I want to be,
and I want to be everything.
Jack of all trades, master of none of them,
time to refocus this energy
and become one again.

Forgive my silence;
I know not what to say.
My heart is hardened on this matter,
and I'm ashamed of how deftly
I have, once again,
taken another apart.
You faced me,
now I cannot face you
to reveal that which I know.
I am a fool in many ways.

I just want to fall off the Earth,
forget everything.

I have lost pieces
once easy
searched for pieces
then trying
now effortless.
I've come to accept that
growing comes with
repetition,
but I didn't know
it meant forgetting
to then
rediscover.
There is nothing to fear,
not anymore;
there is God by my side
and if I fall then
it is by Him.
He knows my heart in all its darkness,
shamed as I am.
I have grown too tough
and too gentle,
too rough and too sentimental,
too harsh and too weak,
all at the same time.
There is a time for each.
It's time to lay down the extras,
and pick up the forgotten.

I pick this pen up to write,
but before I make a single mark,
I know there is nothing I have to say.

What I could say is nothing more than...useless.
I could talk and scribble some of the
awakening thoughts down into some verse, prose,
or poetry.
But why?
I know of this...for lack of a better word...
pain
I feel.
It is mine, and only mine.
Like she was.
I know where my thoughts wander.
I know what everything reminds me of.
I know.
Why should you?

Why should I bother sharing?
Even if someone cares,
I don't
if it's not her.

I want to fix myself.
It's all I've ever wanted,
all I've ever striven for.
I try.
I tried.
Every day,
for her.

How could I possibly describe my favorite things about
her?
How could I possibly enumerate the things I
love?
How could I possibly question what her heart chooses to know, as
I?

For there are an innumerable amount of things she
does, says, is
that I adore more than all of the positive words in the
English language could possibly articulate.
And how could I dismiss it as unworthy of trying?
I couldn't.
Not in all of the Godly or ungodly years of this universe
or the next,
could I.

She is like a mirage, but not.
For the promise of water is sweet, but
people know of the illusion therefore do not
try.
But I have tried my hand and come away
with much more
than sand.

I have come away with the delicate soul
of pure water.

So I try.
To describe the shape,
the strength, the vitality,
the life-bearing qualities
of water:

For when she ties her bag of tea to
the cup,
I see.
That she is tied and ties because she is
free.
Watch her.
Watch how she flutters and stutters
and flies,
and one would do well to surmise
that her nature is also that of a
butterfly.
Why?
For she makes it possible for the Spring to come,
the flowers to bloom,
and the lovers to swoon.

For when she comes across something that causes
her to render an expression across her visage,
(and there are so many expressions! Indescribable,
unpredictable, yet when they come, no other expression
would have been sensical.)
I see.
That she wears her heart in her expressions.
As true (pure) as one (water) could ever
be.
And she knows it (even if she does not),
"*****!"
She'll exclaim, firing her guns,
the baddest ******* this side of the
Mississippi.

For when she is particular and planning
in tastes and in life, such as to take the time
to scrape a biscuit of pepper gravy for
later use, or
to have such disdain for provolone and corn,
(What happens if I melt the cheese over the corn?)
I see.
That no detail is beyond her scrutiny,
about herself and about the world,
she sees all,
is in all,
as is water.
Such a life she has led that
she cannot be afforded
mistakes, oversights.

For when she settles upon crossing a road
in which is meant to be crossed and is crossed by
white, and steps carefully, on-her-toes, quickly
across (only) the white,
I see.
That child-like gleam pass through her eyes
shining as bright a white as the Winter sky
as the sun refracts off the clouds.
Never has she given up (and never will she)
that child inside,
for she can't,
and shouldn't.
To do so would surely mean...
It matters not.
Such child-like wonder to
wander is a must.
Without child,
all of us are naught.

For when she lies about, let's me memorize every
inch, examine every detail, and there are three specific
(right side of chin, below right breast, under left shoulder)
marks of beauty.
I see.
That there is captivating charm within
what could be seen
(and who should see such should be petty and foolish, indeed!)
as imperfection.
That it is the minute marks that define
her as none other could ever be
before, or after, or
ever.

For when she reads and loves the freedom that
poetry (that of which I someday hope to write) often gives
and calls it miraculous and enchanting,
I see.
That her appreciation of others' appreciation,
which is quite a marvelous thing to perceive,
gives her the power to nurture
the nature
within herself and others
with such love to
grow flowers and trees and life into an otherwise
desolate wasteland, and to
turn the most arduous challenge
to that of which is
as effortless
as water.

For when she smiles, and her eyes squint as if the
happiness is too bright, and her nose wrinkles as if the
smell of laughter is too much to bear,
I see.
That despite all the hardship, all the pain,
all the struggle,
that she is stronger than I have yet to
discover.
That the strength to smile in the face of
the terrible truth that is this
world,
is a feat of unparalleled proportions,
and will guide her to many places
far and in between because
she is too strong to quit.

And finally:

For when she opens herself in a way that one pin-*****
would be fatal, and exposes to me the rough, lonely, responsible, insecure
kid that she was (and may still be),
I see.
That she has been reduced to nothing
far more than she has deserved (not that she ever deserved it!),
and she has taken it as well as one could,
not attempting to rebuild herself from
the shards,
but instead arranging them
to form something more glorious
than before.
That free and fair girl,
which has been so trodden upon,
so wronged, so hurt as to hurt as
long as there is existence,
(and when I trespass her too, I become so deeply ashamed
that there is little I can do)
has become the most beautifully broken person
I have ever had the honor to know.

For when she simply is,
I see.
That which has been broken may be made
more beautiful than
that which has not.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I try to hold it in.
I feel it rising again.
I look around, I swallow.
Contain this, I say to myself.
It may have been coming all day,
but you can stop it short.
You can.
But that's not true.
I know it's not.
It comes as it pleases,
and I am forever at it's mercy.
I lay my head down.
I try to accept it.
I pick up a pen,
and flip to the next page
in my only solace.
I write, and I realize,
it's ******* pointless.
**** it.

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

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

You appeared in another dream -
this time we said goodbye.

How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
Ask not of me what you dare not ask of yourself.

How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
How long do I continue digging -
until the soil beneath my nails
turns to blood in clenched fist?
Can I keep looking to the past
to reveal the ways of my future,
or is it in this present moment I am
to seek and see answers?
What words should I etch on tombstone
to harken what it is I cannot say?
To what spirits and lords above
and gods below should I
shovel so many final resting places,
and to which of these I've dug
is mine own grave?

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.

What do I desire?
A fundamental question.
Like asking what must
I be a slave to?
Music and the live crowd?
Finances and independence?
Knowledge and the books?
Words and the ink?
With many passions,
it is hard to choose.
And I must ask myself,
do I have to settle?
Why can I not have it all?

I have tried to
chart and compass
exactly where I have strewn
the pieces of my love.
I find them trapped
in the constellations
and collages of
long past photographs.
A wandering mind
is never at home,
and I'm afraid
I have forgotten mine.
I still find myself lost
somewhere between
Orion and Pleiades -
on the chase for
a simple kind of love.
But here I am,
stretched over millions of miles
in a direction I cannot grasp.

Take my hand,
and let me show you
what peace you may find
among the rolling ocean.
You have charted your way
from galaxy to more,
now use your compass
to rediscover the pieces you have
let fall from the skies above.
I have used your guiding light
to steer my vessel
into yet untamed waters
for years.
I have dropped anchor
and loved many for long and still,
but I travel on
always leaving parts of myself
trapped in the soggy pages
of the past.
Let us not lose ourselves in
the moments we have left behind.
Instead let us forge ahead
in fiery rapture
across the ever-changing sea
and the ever-burning stars
to chase Poseidon
into the depths
together.

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.

The gravity of grief is
raw and mighty
and we're often caught
standing like mountains;
broken heels pressed
into pebbles,
waiting to be forged
into something solid.
Trapped in
this long exposure -
a muted stillness
from the world,
it tells us we're
accountable for our absence
like it doesn't know
it was the one that held us
paralyzed;
a hostage to the void
and without light

Yet still we rise,
we fight to capture
maybe a glimpse of light
beaming from the sky,
giving life to our
eternal suffering,
giving warmth and
drying our futile tears.
We stand taller,
than these peaks,
having been taken down
into treacherous valleys,
bleeding into the soil
our ravished skin
will eventually heal,
and on our knees
we lift our eyes
in search of the
most divine truth.

Start with a statement.
Something you know to be true.
See how it relates to the things you cherish -
family, nature, flying, anything.
Now write it, but also speak it!
Make sure it has a rhythm
that bounces to and fro.
Weave in the important elements
everywhere you can.
But be careful with your words!
Try not to repeat them -
this is where a thesaurus comes in handy.
A dictionary too!
Use your language correctly,
or have a **** good reason for not.
Punctuation matters too;
it affects how you read.
Listen in your head -
does that period belong there?
Grammatically it might be correct,
poetically, maybe not.
Hide things, little secrets,
between the lines
for the reader to discover.
But most of all,
and now this is the important part,
write what feels right,
nothing less
and nothing more.

That's how to write a poem.

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

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.

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.

There is a darkness in me.
I think most people see it in my eyes,
a wolf with no disguise
on the hunt
always.
Don't you dare move too suddenly.
My teeth are sharp and my wits are quick.
I'd sooner tear out your throat for speaking
than to listen to what you have to say.
I'm ruthless.
I hide in shadows of the natural dark
only coming into the light to claim my prey.

There is a darkness in me.
I have a reptile brain
driven by id with hardly a superego.
I can barely control myself sometimes.
It takes all of me not to take all of everything.
There is a conscious somewhere.

There is a darkness in me.
A cold, calculating void
that plans and plans and plans
and executes
you and me both
without a word and without a sound.
My actions speak for themselves:
I am a dagger in the night.

I may have been born this way,
a combination of my father and mother's genes,
or I may have been molded,
driven to conquer out of necessity and hardship.
I don't know,
but this is who I am.

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.

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.

If you should fade away,
please do so, sometime soon,
perhaps tomorrow
or the next day.
Find yourself lined in time's
passages where the future rests,
woven into the moments that
are to come.
I could not ask for more,
no more than today's present moments,
no more than your smile
for a fleeting minute.
If you should go,
please, do not tarry too long,
run into the next day,
leave me to the moments past,
stuck in present times
where you have settled
and stayed,
I'll not ask for more, no,
no more than
today.

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

You left me lost
lonely
longing
loving
insecure
incomplete

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?

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

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

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.

Irons in the fire.
Irons in the fire.
Got a lot of things going,
a lot of irons in the fire.
Take one out,
put another one in,
keep them all going,
irons in the fire.

I just want to sleep,
yet don't know how.
I lay my head to rest,
my mind sparks up instead.
I feel the tears fall down,
and the emotions rise within.
I know what is coming,
there is just little I can do.

And so, I fight the tears,
I fight myself.
I should have no fight left in me,
for I am far too tired,
but it continues just the same.

My world descends to
chaos. My thoughts
                    fall
                 into ash.
The room s
                     p
                         i
                     n
                  s
and will not stop.
I am lost                   from me,

and even further                                                          ­            from you.

I am just so tired.
And it is trivial
because, like everyone,
I will sleep when I die.

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

I've learned not to fight it
when people show themselves the door.
I've always been alone,
why would that change now?
You can call me what you want,
know that I know it well.
I'll keep returning keys
to the places I'm not welcome anymore
like I'm giving back the
pieces I've taken,
like I haven't given any keys myself.
Why would anyone think differently
when I act like I haven't?
I don't blame you.
Many times I know there's things I need to say,
ways to show I care,
and I can't.
Or I won't?
I don't know, but I'm trying.
Forgive me, please.
I'm sorry.

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.

I tried to peel back the layers of you -
layers you had not
or would not yet
face.
I wanted to get down to the root
of all the mysteries you hold within.
I wanted to see the things you hide
and the thoughts you keep safe
from the world.
I wanted to know you -
to truly know you
as a complex being across time
and space and oceans
above,
a companion in this life.