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.

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.

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

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.

Take the wind into the
darkest opening within the forest.
Fall and tumble the words
and mistakes with others.
Be wrapped in vine
and entangled in the homes
of others.
Search for fruit and nourishment
on low and of high
and give what and when
able.
Take rains of seasons to let
them wash away foolhardy
steps and plant
life anew.
Forget not the being of
things creeping and small,
and let trees
of past, present,
and future giants
tower above.

i have a habit of throwing things away
ill tear myself to pieces and lay them at your feet
i know its foolish
just leave me be
and i can turn this one sided feeling
into a no sided thought
like a magic trick
ill fall away
disappear into the black
leaving scorched earth behind
i dont mind
ive done it so much
loved too much
or not enough
its hard to tell
some days
i just cast things aside
put myself in a box
so i dont bite
tear my teeth out
trying to escape
my own making
i never learned to play softly
no one ever wanted to play with me
like a dog unsocialized
i can only growl and snap
and be pet
when wearing a muzzle
i have not hidden
who i am
who are you

"I'd tell you everything if you'd pick up that telephone."

I've spoken many words to you
into the empty air.
I know I've said that before,
but my one track mind has our
song on repeat,
and I cannot forget
the connections we made.

I would show up at your doorstep
with wildflowers of purple and orange
if I knew you stayed there.

Some days I still expect to hear from you,
forgive me,
and love me like we never stopped -
we didn't.

That's not something you forget.

I would write letters to you,
confess my sins of then,
now, and more,
poor taste or not.

I've lied to lovers recently and since,
some of those lies
lies to myself,
but lies nonetheless,
that I had moved past you,
but how can I?

How?

I have washed up on your shore,
risen above and into your blue skies,
heard the visions of truth and future
in the ways you call my name;
you are my soul companion.
I need you in ever-present ways,
your constant grace and kindness to be held,
an effervescent stone moored in the
ever-changing seas of our life.
I beg of you, with all of the hope that I have,
I'll place myself at your mercy,
to accept my rugged and broken ways,
please,
as you have matched my desires
and shown me what your love must hold for me.
Let me cover you under warm blankets,
enveloped in love's rough passion,
pull your being into mine,
and ******* name
as it escapes from
your lips.

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.

The day starts.
Something feels wrong,
but what?
I make it through,
summoning every bit of
motivation.
It's hard to eat,
it's hard to move,
it's simply hard to live.
But I make it.
I pull through.
Then the night hits,
the creeping loneliness
surrounds.
The darkness seeps
from the floor,
the ceiling, the WALLS.
I am enveloped,
eclipsed,
completely enclosed,
by this.
My shoulders slump,
from the weight of the
DARKNESS.
The fire in my eyes,
gradually extinguished,
as the wave of hate
breaks over my soul.
I am broken down,
ground,
and chewed,
by the monster
darkness.
The monster that is
myself.
It burns, oh it burns,
straight through me,
destroying who I am,
who I was,
who I may become,
tearing through what hope
I try holding onto.
Every fiber it tears,
it shreds,
devours,
until I am but a shell
of my other self.
Confused,
scorned,
and cold, I can't remember
who I was. (who I am)
I try to remember,
what life is like
without the monster,
and can't.
Life isn't always this painful,
is it?
Doubt takes hold,
but what if it is?
Has life never been
worth it?
Surely not. Surely something
brings joy?
I can't remember.
I CAN'T REMEMBER.
It shakes through my bones,
echoing and bringing me
down, down
down.
I cry out.
Oh, God! Why?
Why me!
The tears fall, and fall,
in an everlasting
downpour, until
the room is full and
I am drowning.
I hardly care.
With the self-hatred,
sadness, and
hopelessness,
I'd rather die anyway.
I breathe the salty tears in,
a last, desperate attempt.
More and more
and more!
Be finished with me!
Because I am
finished!
Then I wake.
The day starts.

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

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

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

To live and not to wander,
in travels and in mind,
must be the way to faulter
like no other kind.
To seek, create, to love, we do
wander on, as we must,
to never find what's true,
while our ashes turn to dust,
and sow what makes us blue.

Wander on,
do not stick to script.
And when life throws a rhyme,
and you're sure that it's time,
say no.

Flipped.

Wander on
the lines across
these
p
a
g
e
s.
Wander on,
until you reach the ages.

When you write with rhyme,
the poem will write itself.
Same with life,
and you'll find there's nothing
left.

What can you say that hasn't been
said?
Where can you go that hasn't been
led?

So say you break the mold,
break the rhythm, break the rhyme,
will you keep on going?
Will you find the time?

As the end comes nigh,
the finality closes in,
you begin to stray,
to see what may truly be
offered.
But if only you had the energy,
you know you couldn't wait.
To enjoy life's simple pleasures,
and now it's far too
late.

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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

They always seem legitimate
to the person that makes them.

You will not steal these tears from behind my eyes.

I know this one girl.
She's amazing, let me tell you:
Her eyes,
they contain the depth of the deepest part of the ocean,
they are as brilliant as a sapphire under the desert sun,
maybe even more so.
they hold the pain of ten lifetimes,
yet when she smiles,
Her smile,
it radiates the brilliance of twenty suns,
it reaches as far as the furthest stars and makes them smile too,
it is enough to bring even the toughest man to his knees.
And when she speaks, oh my,
Her voice,
it is as sweet as thirty pounds of sugar condensed into one tablespoon,
it weaves into existence the most brilliant melody the world will ever know,
it has the power to melt away any troubles that may plague the mind.
And I know her,
and I am sad for those who do not.

Writing is a narcissistic practice.

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

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

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

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

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

It slips through our fingers.
At the end of it all,
there will be only a few
questions.

Did you love enough?
Did you give everything you could?
Did you spend your life on what mattered?

It rules us all.
Careful it does not pass you by
while you are busy sleeping.

I'm depressed almost every day. Nobody knows how bad it's gotten.

I have a problem with alcohol. The alcohol feeds my depression, and the depression feeds my addiction. My life is spiraling out of control, and nobody knows.

I thought I moved past being suicidal years ago. I was wrong.

I'm ready to get help, but I don't know how.

I'm doing the best I can.

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.

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

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.

You were right
I was different, weird, odd
I grew up poor
My home was broken
As I’m sure yours was too
My first car didn’t come til I was 18 and in college
Paid for by a Pell grant
Alcohol drugs and violence in the home
No father to be seen
A drunk and abusive and mentally ill step dad
Clothes that smelled of cat ****
A working mom stretched too thin but loving all the same
Loved ones lost and mourned

I imagine we had more in common than we realized

I know in some ways you were trying to keep me down
But in some ways you knew that you could never
In the ways that dumb kids can know things without knowing how or why they know them and unable to articulate their truth
I was never meant to stay
You were never going to drag me down
Hard as you might try
Names, hurtful and crushing
Violence when no one saw
Hiding in shadows or in plain sight
Maybe that’s all you wanted was to know
That you could work your way into my mind
15 years later still
Still I search for an explanation
A ******* reason
A ******* apology
Something
Sure I made it out
I moved on
I left
But I still look back and ask
Why

Maybe we were just stupid kids
Maybe I’m the only one that still thinks about all those things

I do know one thing though


You can’t hurt me now

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

I hope you are well.

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

I hope you have not been beaten too much.

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

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

I find myself
in the same places
again and again.
Right in between the cracks
of where memories form
and people are built.
Between the ties
of an old railroad track
and in the sound
of a rushing creek.

I visit this place when I can.

The vines have grown up,
as there are no longer feet
to stomp them down.

I suppose I have too.

I still find myself
waiting for the train
to come down the line
so it can rattle the air around me,
so it can rattle the teeth in my head
and remind me
that though many things have changed,
there are many things
that have not.

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

I am aboard
a rudderless ship
completely lost
in your ocean eyes.

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

And in these troubled times,
I seem to find that my love is no longer yours,
and yours is no longer mine.
And I stopped writing.
I'm no longer inspired,
by our love or my darkness,
I'm just sick and tired,
of running in circles,
no more can you hurt me.
And if we're both so scared of being loved,
why did we dare?
Flown too high,
sunk too low.
If goodbye is a must,
then what is to show?
But a love that shouldn't have been lost,
that is.
And a heart that screams don't be soft, no matter the cost,
but is.
Again and again,
I give and I give.
For it is in my nature
to live and let live.
It is in my nature
to heed and take heed,
to bleed and to bleed,
'til there's nothing left of me.
I hurt and I hurt,
until I give birth
to a devil that says
you'll pay for these wounds.
Trust me, trust me,
you'll pay for it soon.
So we plant the seed,
and soon it shall bloom,
and you shall read,
that a love once cherished
and a love that has been proven
to pass any test, any obstacle, it's shown,
is now a love withered and worn,
a love now gone.

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

Trying is not good enough.
Nor will it ever be.

To the days I mark the date
and nothing else.

What would normally inspire
is now but a frugal reality.

A world plunges into chaos
as world leaders with worldly
egos make decisions
based on what?
Because these small men cannot
fight their battles among themselves
they send children to **** children
and for what?
They drop bombs, the
Mother Of All Bombs
to collapse tunnels on
Mothers' sons.
Who authorized this?
With nuclear tensions rising
in a sea of ships
invading a country's personal space,
while the drums of war
beat with fervor
and the blood pounds in these
leaders' ears,
and the people that elected them
just sit back in fear,
as if they're watching
World War III
live and in color in a crowded
and dark theatre.
These men all think they
are on the right side of history,
and they are showing,
flexing,
their country's muscle,
they think to back down is
a display of weakness,
but it is the monks of the world,
the meek of the Earth,
which will outlast them all.
They think they can justify the
killing and slaughter of others,
but what happens if you flip it?
Would you not militarize as
a regular human as well
should your homeland be invaded?
How can we blame these people?
Is it too much to hope for
that we lay down these arms
and not destroy ourselves?
There is no you,
there is no me,
we do not **** others,
we only **** ourselves.
There is only us,
and we are all in this together.

We speak these words in our actions,
tell of the things we
cannot yet
say.
Her eyes question, mine do too,
but we know.
I answer with a glance,
how I've known for so long,
of mine and of hers,
how it has carved its
spaces into my mind,
wrapped itself so snug
around my willing heart.
She tells me today,
with thoughts, not words,
the thing she'll tell me
tomorrow,
of what has soaked
into her being,
tied itself so splendidly
into her open hands,
and as such,
I do the same.

I’ve stared into the flame too long,
saw that which lit the darkness
and seen the darkness overcome.
I’ve been on the verge of death
and living a seemingly full life
for far too long.
It’s not that I’ve always gone away,
but that I’ve forgotten how to stay.

I didn't realize how close I'd let you get to me.
I didn't realize your love was the only thing that made me see.
I wish you hadn't gotten this close.
I didn't know it would be you that hurt me the most.
So here I am, all lost and confused
Just wishing, maybe, you could take a walk in my shoes.
I wish I could show you all the tears that I've shed.
I wish I could tell you a life without you is to be a pointless life led.
I wish you could see all the blood that I have spilled.
I wish you to know it wasn't for attention, it was for me to be killed.
You took away your love, the only thing to me that mattered.
Without that, I shattered.
I didn't think this horrible pain would last.
But here I am, and several months have passed.
They say those who care the most fall the hardest.
And baby I'm telling you I've fallen the farthest.
I guess none of this matters now because I hear you've found somebody new.
But for the record, I still love you.

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

So delicate, so sweet.
Tis quite a wonder
why this cannot be.
I feel you.
You feel me.

I keep thinking...one day.
One day you'll be mine.
No...I must not lie.
One day I'll be yours.
But for now, this I know:

My heart, my soul,
must wander,
and wander on.
Unrestrained, Unchained.
Until I am sure...

Sure of what?
I cannot know, but
I know that now
would only cause pain
and end in grievance.

I guess...we both,
must just enjoy what we have,
while we have it.
No matter,
how much we love one another.

This is supposed to express my love
Yet something so simple as paper and words
Cannot describe something so vast
So even though I'm doomed to fail
Write this I must, and write this I shall
Though it is infinitely pointless,
and hopelessly prudent
I must scribble away and hope I can show
Just how much
my love for you,
grows.

My misery shapes my world.
Always.
Rather it be with you,
I, or
Everyone else.

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

The writing challenge is to pick up the book nearest you, turn to page 68, and use sentence 11 in a poem.

Stephen King, The Drawing of the Three

You're not hearing voices that aren't there, the voice inside his head returned.



You're not hearing voices
that aren't there.
The voice in his head returned.
As it always did.
Tell me,
tell me what it is
you want to know.
He wrested with it
but submitted
as he always had.
I'll tell you everything,
how I surround you,
how I'm inside of you...
ARE YOU LISTENING?
He was, he was,
please let me go, please
let me
go
he pleaded
please
as he always did.
Don't you want to know?
These pieces inside you,
you know to what I'm referring,
don't you?
I see it all.
He did. He knew.
He always had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I woke up sad today.
Gently, I asked myself,
"Why?"
And my mind, responding,
showed me the dreams that, for once,
were a direct reflection of what had happened
the night before.
I'd glanced at your fridge, noticing,
not for the first time, the absence of
anything related to me,
and the presence of the past,
as if, somehow, the past had become,
once again,
more important than I.
But it's not my place to make those assumptions.
And you noticed my glance, maybe thinking
it was the first time I'd seen it.
Again, not my place.
My best guess for this would not be a matter
of importance, but, as usual,
a matter of ***-for-tat.
As if I made the decision to set
that bridge aflame.
I didn't.
And I refuse to make amends,
once and time and time again,
for something I hold no responsibility for.

I woke up sad today.
I examined it carefully over my morning
cereal and coffee,
accepted it,
and went on to have a semi-productive day.
And it's still here, this sadness.
And as usual, as it's mostly always been,
there is nobody to talk to.
My only comfort is a pen and paper.
Of course.
I ask myself,
"How could you open up to people?"
Not long ago I was described as emotionless.
Because, I guess, I don't openly express
my emotions,
but how could I?
Nobody has any interest in knowing me beyond
what I show them,
and that's ok,
but I wish people wouldn't assume
invisible means non-existent.

I woke up sad today.
I can't figure out if
I am guilty of seeking to be understood
before understanding,
or if others are guilty of it.
The result is the same, of course.
But I can only change myself.
And there are already steps in place
to create this change,
I could never be accused of not trying,
but self-improvement doesn't seem to end.
I'm content with myself,
but I'm still lonely.
And as usual, I'm wallowing.

I woke up missing a friend.

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