caught between the life you want to live
and the life you're already living

everything collapsing
your dreams dissolve
on the smallest of smallest of ponds
while the ocean you were meant to swim  
lies just over your fear

hiding behind someone else's shadow
because he was here first
because he is not afraid

yet your mind runs deep
your ideas just take longer to collect
that's all it is

for our greatest fear is not that we are

inadequate
but that we are
beyond
for to be great is to be different
and to be different is to be
alone

I dreamed of you
again,
a  longer dream,
(if you will)
a full feature,

I must admit however,
there wasn't much of a story,
we didn't even talk

and this time you weren't just
the one liner extra either,
you were the leading man.

It was just you
and me wanting
to talk
yet avoiding
a meeting,

It was just you and me
staring
at each other
from afar,

it was just
you and me
hiding behind our
friends, hating
yet somehow wanting their
teasing.

basically,

it was a reflection of you
and me
in reality or rather
perhaps
of you
and me

in the past

because at present
i don't even see
you
anymore.

I have used up
pages
pages
pages
to reap
only frustration,

crossed out
word
after word
after word
phrases sentences stanzas
not knowing

why?

forcing verse to rise
from the dark waters of self doubt,
time and effort coax and tease
and tempt
and tug
and pull

yet pencil lead continues
to disappear
empty
on pages
nothing

but thick hard gray scratches,
second guesses
angry strokes

Voices hum from the towering trees,
inspiration hiding in a corner
running
mocking

and I listen
to myself
saying
                 
            I can't.

And all the poems that could have been
fold like smoke
tumbling
twisting
swallowi...

She watches a drama on the television
calendar pages flying
from time’s prying fingertips
showing her,
reality is
slower,
trudging ,
dragging in its pain;
she paces quietly,
wandering down
lonely stairwells of her memory,
her feet shuffling,
slipping
on loose tiles
of broken promises.
the floor is covered in his tracks,
decaying leaves of fickleness, letters of blotted ink, thick gray scratches; 
his unsaid goodbye, lingering
heavy and stale,
the air
filled with the smell of him,
scents of his self doubt and insecurity.