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

Watch her.
See her step, see her twirl.
With dozens of planets
which orbit her hips
as her skirt spreads in the wind.
She laughs and the morning dew
rises from the tall grass
in salute
of her soothing voice.
The mockingbirds follow,
imitating all the known
to make themselves known
to her,
as she hops, flips, and swallows
into the woods
without a care.
She races unto the path,
a path only for her,
lit with light from the sun,
only for her.
See that she touches the hard bark
of the trees with soft tips
of fingers, and the trees stand
to only provide her shade.

Now watch.

Her as the planets burn to
ash and fall among the
grass.
And the dew explodes in
ecstasy while the
birds of all choke on their
praise.
And the sun of all forgives
its light and collapses
inward.
And the tall pines creak and scream
** timber and fall
about.

Watch her.

I weep.

For the long lost trips amid and afloat the sloshing and entangled water and stars.
For the star-crossed lovers between here and afar.
For the forgotten man with rusted paws and a jaded sense of self.
For the inhabitants of our entangled star which passes through as many dimensions as the madman's thoughts and also more dimensions than he has such.
For the surrounded and still solitary dust ball of our home where we are a disease which so fruitfully multiplies.
For the soft and once guiding light which only naivety and depravity can spark.

I weep.

For myself, others, and everyone, which are as much a part of me as I am of them and we as much a part of the universe - with its many facets and worn down lines - as it is of us.

I weep.

For the truth in our collectiveness that we destroy with the insistence and grief that we are apart and alone afloat these entangled stars.

I weep.

It is as you say -
that we could have never known,
never predicted the decision(s) that led
us to each other.

We have been years in the making.

There is no stopping fate's inevitable wheel.
All things come around and
we always always always
end where we belong.

Hold tight.

Life will spin and we will fall,
but you will always always always
be my home

Somewhere deep within
I've always known
it was
you.

A log rests upon a levee.
When will it break?

Never again will life be as simple
     as it were today.
Not a care, not a worry, as we
     lie there.
Surrounded by all the love in the
     world.
And a small child's laughter floating
     through the air.
In that moment, I know, this is
     where I want to be.
And all the worldly possessions could not
     keep me away.

Senseless
         Falling
  Soaring
       Fastidiousness
           Shooting
                      Further

We can’t know the wind
but the wind may know us

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

You. You. You.

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

I've been discarded before.

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

I get nervous, but I know my center.

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

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

I get nervous.

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

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

I long for that Wintry, Willowy wonderland
still.

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

I seek to express that which cannot,
perhaps ought not,
be expressed.
I seek to find the culvert
which allows, without folly, the
articulation and the metrification of
my woes and my bows,
to you.
Ah, the woe!
That you shall flitter and flutter and fly
away
to the place that is neither here nor there,
but certainly not
here.
A place in between the pages of which
dutifully record my
fear.
A place so far within the chasms of my,
but not only my, mind
where it is (was) dark and chilling,
a place to sometimes find the
bout of the unwilling.
A place to remain
insane
in constant pain,
as I.
A place.
A place which so elegantly
falls
away
at the mere mention of...
wait.
Please!
I implore you of your presence,
please.
But I shan't beg, no,
for you will certainly begone if I mistake
thee for a comman.
So I seek to express that which cannot
be expressed.
I seek not to cage, but to
so deeply swoon you and shower upon
the rightness of our pairing that anything else is
unthinkable.
But!
First I must prove such to myself,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
that what I seek to prove
is something of a move
to the ultimate righteousness of the vast
universe.
But I must also consider the
curse.
The curse which must foul all things
with trepidatious verse!
The curse which must beguile and
tear asunder all that is beautiful
and all that I hold dear!
The curse which always brings the
forever loathing, cooing fear!
No!
I will consider you, curse,
but no longer is your power meaningful.
No longer shall I stay trapped
in the throes of my
ever-darkening think-sphere.
No longer shall I remain transfixed upon
the betwixt,
no longer shall I lie and say
no longer.
For I know no is not an option.
I know I am cursed,
and no amount of solitary determination will
ease my mind,
but you.
You are cursed also.
I see the struggle in thine eyes
which seer in the brightest fire this
world has ever known.
I see that which you keep locked away,
from the world,
but not from me.
The ambivalent mistrust of all things which
seek to know anything, even the smallest detail
of your singular life.
I see it.
I see you.
Within you,
I see me.
Within me,
I see you.

There is this quiet
and persistent voice
in my head -
quiet enough not to be heard
in everyday life, but
persistent enough to be an
agonizing stitch -
that tells me that society is wrong,
that it is backwards,
that its morals are convoluted,
and only when I am surrounded
by the sounds of nature -
the rushing of water,
the chirping of birds,
the buzz of insects -
and not civilization
can I hear it
without agony.

Weaving words,
so carefully. Every
syl
la
ble, crafted.
Spectacularly
laced, though the
unforgiving blue lines.
Wonderfully
chased by the
deadly silent black pen.

These words,
meaning or no?
Mischievous and
deceiving. Or
hopeful and
believing?

Where do they go?
Where do they lead?
Follow them, yet
could they be
seen?

Fortitude and fragility.
Miles apart, yet
undeniably the same.
In the world of words,
it's all just a game.

Coincidental rhymes, and
sentimental times, or
simplistic virtuosity, and
complicated philosophy?

These worlds in words,
are never as they seem.
But who are we to judge,
when the words in the world
are never what we mean?

How quickly the calluses return,
reminders of the work past.

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