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 fallen
as the rain on a windswept path
covered in pine needles,
a home to the trodden
underfoot.
I have wept
as the rain in a silent Winter forest,
coating the leaves
and then sliding
slowly.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip.
I have frozen
as the rain above a jutting terrace,
forming cloudy icy trails
to the ground
below.

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

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

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

It is what it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come back to me.

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

I hope to
rediscover the world
through your eyes,
unlock the mysteries
behind the mundane
again.

See new colors,
think new thoughts,
find the lost joy in music.

I hope to
show you, teach you,
love you, reach you,
in all our imperfect
human ways.

Read new words,
twirl words into lines,
find the perfect poem
for you.

Remembering
who you were
always
tells of who you are.

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.

Something shifted.
The gun was in my hand,
and I was to my feet
immediately.
I heard the safety click off
somewhere in the distance.
The gun lead me around
the apartment,
clearing rooms one by one
logically
with my back covered
at all times.

Last night I heard something
deep in the wells of
my dream-state.
I forced myself awake,
pulled myself from the
darkness of sleep,
barely,
to listen.

Remnants of my childhood.
Like my Mother,
I am a protector
and ruler
of my domain.

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

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

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

Challenge your barriers;
do not let them sit indeterminable.

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

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

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

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

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

I could watch your breath all night long
knowing within it carries all of our future,
all of the ways you’ll speak your love
into my open and willing heart,
knowing it carries the air that
gives life to the soul that I will cherish
for the rest of my days.

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

I 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.

I inflicted a wound,
you showed me where the words cut.
How could I not see that in the
beginning?
How have I been so blind to
that side of
myself?

I get wound up,
like what happens when you
twist a slinky and that one ring
pops out,
never to go back in properly again.
A ball of anxiety sits in my stomach
daily,
but when I love
I get scared.
I get eaten up with fears of
being abandoned,
it tears at me to the point
that I can't even think straight.

So it comes out
eventually,
I lash out to those I love.
It must be their fault,
right?
But I know others can't be blamed
for my feelings.
I know that.

I've learned many lessons the hard way,
that was one of them.
It must be an unconscious thing
since I didn't recognize it.
As all, I'm still learning parts of myself,
I'm still growing.

I've also learned not to make excuses
when confronted with my wrongs.
This is simply my best explanation.
There is no justification I can make
in causing pain,
not for anyone.
I can't convince anyone that I can change,
we all hold beliefs on that.
But I am not the same person
I was
a year ago.
That's a fact.

I should not have been blind to this
for so long.
I can already see more pages in my
past where I have unknowingly
smudged the ink.
Places where I was blind before.

It's time to get to the root cause
of this.
It's time to apply the careful
introspection to a once dark place
of unknown anger.
It's time to dig into this childhood
pain,
this childhood cancer that eats me
alive,
this place where any sense of being
left
causes self-shattering tremors,
and rip this part from me
whole.

I need this to work.
It is no one's fault but my
own
that I have not accomplished
this yet.
It's time to bleed
so that I may finally
grow.

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?

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

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

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.

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.

I've been acting out of character
trying to build a new man lately.
Careful don't you look down on me
and find a different version of yourself.

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

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

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

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

Coming in contact
with darkest parts of the self -
how do we survive?

Never be ashamed to love.
It's all we ever have.

I woke up 30 minutes earlier
than usual
with a bladder of **** about
to explode out of me.
An entire 12 pack in one night,
that **** again.
Nothing new.
Not even hungover.

I lost my mind over some stupid
****,
childish ****, crazy-type ****,
and sat bare-*** on the
bathroom floor at 6:30 in the morning
with my ***** resting on the
cold wooden (and new, I might add) floor.

It's stupid, I knew that,
and still do,
but it's definable and measurable
and if it's measured,
to me,
it's real.
As anything.

I sat on that floor
and felt my converter kicking on.
You know,
that mechanism that takes ****
and turns it into gold?

I know it's stupid,
but forgive me for being honest,
or don't.
Fling **** at me,
do it,
******* do it
****.

Talk to others
if that's what you want to do,
is that how that works?
I don't actually know.
Unfounded? Maybe.
But that's only part of it.

Time is precious.
If I'm not worth yours,
how can I give you mine?
That's ok.
Fine.
That's the real issue.
Forget it.

My **** converter is on,
I know where all of these
energies go,
I know how this goes for me.

The waves crash and
the ship rides on
into the dock
between the velveteen piers
as the wind sighs and moans
and the old wood creaks.
The sun beads the moisture
in the air
of the swaying harbor
as the rough sand
tries desperately to grab
the hips of the shore
and the boats all move
to and fro
in endless motion
against the bay side.

Tumbling down mountains
through long and sharp grass,
I find
that the dew I’ve gathered
is of little consequence
to the stars
I’ve pondered
above.

Yet I still find myself
glancing skyward
as I gather speed,
wondering
if they’re
watching
and hoping
I might catch
their eye.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes I can't find the solace I require in my loneliness.
Other times I can.
I can rejoice in my presence, and
be grateful to be alive.
But now...
All there is now is a singular floating leaf
that is blown away from the pile before it can
land.
So Spring comes and the grass grows,
and I am still alone.
I search within myself for some seed,
some growth,
that proves that the soil is not spent,
and that my joy does not always require
recompent,
in vain.
And in vein these rivers and Spring wet-weather
branches flow,
for it rains and rains,
but nothing may grow.
But alone.
And as the limestone gives way to
ash, and roots that enclose to form
a ring,
we lose ourselves but for a moment,
but what could also be a hundred hundred years
that many many tears will allow me to
live
encircling an eternal hell
that may yet be
heaven.
I find the ways to say
as surely as the trees find a way
to reach toward the sun,
that the sun may give such life,
may turn the Winter to Spring to
Summer to fall as I do,
in love with you,
but will blind and burn
as surely as
you,
and will set and night will come
where I will howl and cry and sigh
at the moon,
alone,
without you.
And the stars shine bright as a reminder
that there are a hundred million hundred suns
like you,
but also that my sun has departed and
the hundred million hundred other suns
could burn a hundred million hundred years and not be
like you.
As surely as I search and the night grows long
with the shadows on the inside, and
all I find are the writings on
the chalk-hide to symbolize the turnings of years,
you rise,
with a greeting and a smile,
welcome,
my solace.

For the days, weekends,
I can be wholly unbothered
and alone
with no expectation of any interaction.
I can let my thoughts settle,
hear my thoughts
stream
from one to another
in a constant consciousness.
I can shore up the things
in my life
which have been neglected,
do the things
that need to be done
without interruption,
free to do as I please,
content with the
company of myself
as I have been
since a toddler
drawing dirt tracks under a shed
alone
with Hot Wheels.
Perhaps I will go into work
with my book
and box of pizza
to play catch up,
perhaps I will write,
or perform maintenance on my car
or perhaps
I will simply
exist.

I do the best I can
with what it is I'm given.
Many times
have I produced something
from nothing.
At this point, I am
the master of my world,
your world, and everything
else, I claim.
There will never be anyone
who can break me. For
I am the strongest.
I work the hardest.
I suffer the longest.
I am me, and
only me could beat
me. I come from
nothing, and, see now,
what am I? I am
something. Something more
than nothing.
And, take heed, even
nothing more than
something, is something
still the same.

The words are there,
suspended in front of my
eyes and yours,
to be read and
to be written.
Their curves around the drip
drops of rain
on the concrete,
they crash to
become one
but only become many
as the ink from their words
flood the cracked road
with a pure pitch.
They have spilled from our lips,
and have run their course
and have carved their ledges
and cliffs into our rock-slide
lives,
and settled
to be written
before they have been spoken.

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

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

Days pass and the craving grows.

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

In this, moderation will not do.

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

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

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.

I stare at the wall
with thoughts thick as molasses sliding
down my arms,
mind is blank, the refrigerator hums,
semi-solitude.
Tickle the ivories, hoping to spark
the motivation to learn a song,
but instead find ashes where
fire has not been in god knows how long.
My brain has heard the screams of
my liver and knows it is time to
rebalance the chemicals,
but it will take some time.
I'm surrounded by books with knowledge,
yet all I have the will to do is
add to mine my sub-standard
notes.
Write the things that feel like
sentences, but when spoke,
are accidental rhythm and
stride, I don't know.
My eyelids have attached to them
dangling rocks under gravity's
command while my eyes cannot
dare to fall under a restful pitch,
so I stare.
Catatonic, canonical,
half here, whole gone,
I stare.

If I could pluck the stars
right out of the sky,
I'd wrap them in silver bow
and emeralds divine.
We could walk among the clouds,
never say goodbye.
Baby, I'd give you all the stars,
Just to make you mine.

Steal my words away,
in cryptic ways they have
always been yours.
And while the wave of yesterdays
fall upon me,
and I gather my courage,
you'll slip away like you do.
Let me know in what ways
I cling too strongly;
please don't leave as
everyone else has.
I cannot stand the absences
I leave in myself.
My knees have been sore lately,
begging, pleading
for my own forgiveness.
I will not (cannot) cleave
if unwelcome,
so send me away to feel
soft sand and sharp shells
while I sift myself in
oceans blue.
You'll discover stars alone
within and across and above
regardless,
so I beg of you,
if only for a little while,
stay.

Steady as we go,
we live these patterns,
from one day on
to the next
and on.

How unburdened are my thoughts,
how free are my intents
while I know we are a constant.

Season’s first frost
and chilling air
somehow
make our whims
even cozier,
more whole.

Life blooms this December,
how anxious we are
to hold your tiny hands,
to hear your quiet
breath.

We ride these waves,
you and I and our
lovely daughter,
steady and sure
and full of hope.

I will push and pull
for reasons undisclosed.
Could you still love me?
I am fragmented
and torn across time.
Can you see it yet?
I know it doesn't show
in the beginning,
and I always think
this time
I will overcome it.

Obsessive.
Obsessive.
Passive.
Obsessive.
Obsessed.

I obliterate these thoughts,
leaving them like torn leaves
flailing in the wind,
and some source,
undoubtedly of the past,
always replants these seeds of doubt,
their roots not yet destroyed.

It's in my pathology.
These neural pathways have
grown stronger and stronger
despite my effots
to dig them up with words,
poison them with reflection,
and hack them with an ax of will.

Still

it's not enough.

Storms rage,
and I cannot look away;
I am not scared.
Let the trees fall around me
and the air crackle with static.
The wind can wist me away
while I stare into the sky’s oblivion
searching for the elusive bolt.
The world can flash around my eyes,
leave me half-second blind,
and I will not hesitate
to step out into the open.
Take me while you can
dastardly weather
I am yours
for now.

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

Returning to 16 hour days,
breaks few and far between,
no time to think or to ponder
but just to do,
a slave to my own will,
a puppet to my own dreams,
I am but a vessel for creation

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.