I think I finally understand what people mean when they compare their love to a burning candle.
I thought I had already known years ago, but I could never have been more wrong.
You were talking about those butterflies you get when you're around me.
As we danced and swayed together that night, after you carried me out into the backyard to the perfect spot in the wet grass,
We held each other in subtle motion together, with arms drawn close around our bodies, as one.
And it was then, amid the misty nightfall, that you told me about those butterflies.

I smiled and delicately ran my hand across your chest, feeling your heart beat with such profound pace and purpose.
I swear, your heart was beating so powerfully that I could feel your thick pulse hurtling throughout your entire body.
We stood there, swaying, and that's when it hit me.

I probably get those butterflies too, when I'm with you.
But I get them more at the thought of you when we're apart.
And at first it worried me, because it felt as if my brain wasn't synchronized with what my heart was feeling.
I  knew I loved you, but I didn't know how I loved you.
It's not as if I don't feel that excitement, or that rush of getting worked up over you, because I most certainly do.

But the main thing that I feel when I'm around you is this wholesome peace and calm atmosphere,
As if the Earth stopped spinning and time is slow.
You make me feel so utterly relaxed that I don't ever notice any other feeling when you're around.
The air feels thick and comforting, sweet and pure, as it surrounds me in everything that you are.

Nothing about this love I have feels rushed, out of control, or over-powering.
It feels like a slow burning of pure passion, delicately taking its time to pass on by.
Its slowness is not to be confused with "boring" or "dull", oh no.
It's something that is slow and careful, but so bright and powerful and...calm.

That night, it hit me, and that night, I knew
just how it was that I loved you.
I finally understand what they mean when they compare their love to a burning candle, and it's not what most think.
For a candle is not fast to burn, nor does it vary in how bright its flame flickers.
Once it has been lit, there's no stopping it, not for anything in the world.
Its steady candlelight glows with ease, with hues of a radiant spectrum of heat.
My love for you is beyond measure, beyond pace, far beyond description, and it feels as old as this dry August sun.
A candle, burning lazily, flickering in a vibrant display,
just as it will be tomorrow, and as it was yesterday.

So many things are swimming through my mind right now.
So many thoughts, memories, emotions, and demons.
They float by like sheets of ice,
chilling me down to the deepest part of my broken soul,
making me numb.
Their compositions are so complex I avoid them for my sanity.
My mind is so distortedly dysfunctional.
It's filled with an infinite number of all these things,
but if I focus on one of them for too long, my mind pushes them out of reach.
My mind is a vast labyrinth guarded by sarcasm, bitterness, and a mask of composure,
filled with wastelands, trenches, and locked doors.
Only those that are patient will ever find the vault at its very center,
and even then, my mind is nearly impossible to crack.
This vault is like no other.
It's one that you never
                                                        want
                                                                                      to
                                                                                                             open.

Despite my mind's shortcomings, it's quite clever in this one sense.
The vault contains demons so repulsive, so revolting, so disturbingly terrifying,
why, my mind can't even remember what it put there.
But at night, as my mind pulls at dreams,
the vault is most unfortunately opened when my guard is down.
I sometimes wake up breathless,
with only faint recollections of the nightmarish memories and demons that my mind conjured and unleashed in slumber.
As suddenly as I awaken, the dark matter of my mind retracts back into the vault before I have much else to do.
I then peel myself off of my bed, scrape the attempt of a smile out of the gutters of my soul, and go about my day.
There are other times when the solid walls of my mind melt away for reasons I cannot explain.
Everything then swims through my mind,
all the darkness of it tugging at the back of my consciousness,
wearing away at my thought process,
and filling up my mind with hazy grief.
Nonetheless, the vault of my mind is better off locked.

However, by design, a vault must have a key to open it.
The key to mine takes many different forms,
and the interesting part is, I don't know what the key looks like.
From day to day, my mind is an imposing, impenetrable fortress,
to the point where even my own mind can't determine its complexity.
I live each day, watching, searching,
dreading the day when I finally find what frees my mind
from its nightmares, secrets, and its vault.

I haven't been on here in months.
I haven't written anything in months either.
I haven't even opened up a book,
and my drum set has mostly been collecting dust.
It's sad I know, but to be honest
I haven't been doing much of anything lately.

I've been in and out of court,
in and out of towns,
in and out of schools,
in and out of hospitals,
in and out of houses...
It's been one hell of a time to say the least.

I've been to the city's courthouse so often, it's almost funny.
Almost.
I recognize the security guards every time that I'm in there,
even when they switch shifts.
I know the layout from the first to the seventh floor.
I know which of their vending machines is the best to choose from
and how the elevator doesn't work the way it should.
That place is too familiar for my own good.
It's a world of officials in immaculate suits,
dishing out the ***** work in the most vicious of ways,
with small talk, fake smiles, sweaty palms and anxiety.

In the past year, I've lived in four different places
spread all across the Keystone state.
I look back on the first house I grew up in with a twisted nostalgia.
How could things have been that simple, that easy?
With one big happy family under a suburbian roof,
in a small little town that nobody's ever heard of.
The simple times.

That simplicity was shattered,
with the family broken and trying to go our separate ways.
I did love our next house for just a few reasons though.
I loved the fresh new perspective.
I looked at my town in a whole new way.
Hell, I looked at everything differently.
I felt safe and secure,
even though we were living paycheck to paycheck, day by day.
Our next-door neighbor was the sweetest woman that I've ever met.
She brought the culture of her home-country to us,
getting us together for meals,
brewing tea with sugar cubes on a silver platter.
And even though things were turning into absolute ****,
I thought that it was going to be okay.
It was nice while it lasted.

Living in the mountains was refreshing.
I was torn away from everything I had ever known and loved,
****** into a living arrangement that was not exactly ideal.
Secluded by trees, nestled at least a half hour away from civilization.
But you take what you can get when you have nowhere else to go.
It's funny how life works.
I grew to appreciate the simple things:
having a bed to sleep in,
food to eat,
a place to shower,
clothes to wear.
I finally started understanding my life as it truly was,
a big, swirling mess.
But it was okay, because I was finally going to start anew.

Wrong.
Suddenly we were back down where we used to be.
A tad bit further south, just on the edge of the Maryland line.
Once again I had a new perspective,
once again in a living situation that was not ideal.
It's been rather awkward,
being forced to live with family friends.
It was either that, or I would've been forced to live with a monster.
You take what you can get when there are no other options.
This is the life.

It's pitiful to see the state that I'm in.
One would think that I am a pill-popping drug dealer,
for all the bottles of pills that I have with me.
A little bit of Naproxen, some Carafate,
along with Pantoprazole, Methylprednisolone,
standard painkillers and Flexeril, among others.
But nothing is touching the pain,
and the doctors are running out of ideas.
If my father doesn't **** me, this stress certainly will.


Ladies and Gentlemen, I know this isn't exactly a poem...
I don't even know what to call it.
It's just something that I've thrown together for my sanity,
because I've tried everything else.
It's just a big clusterfuck of words,
because I don't even know what I'm saying anymore.
It's just what I've been up to lately.

Nobody ever talks about the days in spring
where you sit against the windowsill
looking out as the rain engulfs the outside world.

Everybody talks about the sweet flowers,
blooming in the vast sunshine and warmth
beautiful colors and scents overwhelming your senses
as they sprout from the lush, green grass
and the renewed freedom you have
as you discard your coat and scarf.

Everybody talks about the cool afternoons in spring
where you find yourself reading your favorite paperback,
beneath the ancient cherry tree and its bright, pink blossoms
in the serene meadows overlooking the thawed pond,
where the only sounds are the birds in the distance
and the faint rustling of the trees as they sway with the breeze.

Everybody talks about the days where
the sun urges the snow to melt,
for the cold to disappear and be replaced by warmth
that goes down to your very core,
bringing life and joy to the world again.

But nobody ever talks about the days in spring
where the rain steadily comes pouring down
and you stand outside on the wet asphalt,
welcoming it with a smile as it purifies your consciousness
and opens your mind and heart.

Nobody talks about when deep puddles appear at every flooded street corner,
and even now you cannot help but take one giant step into it
for children's sake,
allowing the water to fly in every which way,
drenching your clothes as you go on to the next one.

Nobody talks about when a storm brews up in the sky,
thunderous dark clouds filling in as you try to outrun it home,
but try as you might,
there comes a point where you simply accept fate
and stand there anyway as the rain crashes down upon you,
upon everything.

Everybody talks about the wonderfully bright, cheerful days in spring.
But it's the days with rain, the dark skies, the sudden downpours,
that I believe need more attention.
As where would the pretty flowers and blossoming trees,
where would the lush green grass and soft, quiet meadows be
without a little rainstorm every now and again?

What can I do to make you see
what the world can truly be
and the endless possibilities
that are out there for you, and me.

What can I do to make you smile
for you to sit back and stay awhile,
to get you out of your comfort zone,
to show you that you're not alone.

What can I do to make you laugh
about something other than your crumbling path,
why can't I help you open your eyes
to look ever so slightly on the brighter side.

Just get up.
Get up, and feel the thrill of being alive,
I want you to be your best and thrive.

Just wake up.
Wake up, from this hazy nightmare,
wade through the depths of your own despair.

If you ever get there,
come and find me.
I'll be waiting beneath the old willow tree.

It's the one filled with memories
of what is and what used to be.
Under the constellations of wonder and awe,
by the sea of emotions, ever jagged and raw.

Its roots are etched into my bone and skin,
for it's part of who I am and what lies within.
I want you to meet me there,
in the lands that lie beyond your despair.

I'll be waiting, ever fading
for you to see what I can't bear to know
that it's up to you, there's nothing I can do.
Time will pass, what will it have to show?

Loving me is like trying to venture into the deep, cavernous wasteland of the shattered pieces of my soul. I seriously don't know what will be left of you when you return...a hollow shell of a human being when someone like me has disposed of you.
Loving me is going to end with the essence stolen from your very being. Not a very charming proposition, but there it is.

I've lost countless hours of sleep to these nightmarish thoughts of mine as they engulf me from the inside out...trying to write them, to let them escape, but my face remains as blank as the empty paper.

As each day passes, I anxiously await for when I may finally see him...to be with him.