your days are filled with nothing but Pain
and you're dead inside - so numb - no hope of being kissed awake
from this Land of Emptiness,  dark and dreary
where the air is so cold and chills your bones
and it's all just an absolute Nightmare

except there are no Scary Monsters;
just the foreboding voice of The End -
its silence screams your Name
and haunts you as you trudge
along the Frozen Shores of your Heart

there is no Oxygen here - no way for you to breathe
you're perpetually choking and you can't start a Fire -
can't warm your numbed hands - and there is Nobody
out There to ease the aches that this Solitude brings -
It sweeps over the Tundras you've come to call "Home"

It was because he was mine,
and I was his,
and we were each others.

We ignored the pain,
and the sorrow.

We didn't think of ourselves as poisonous,
or treacherous.

We were the epitome of youth,
and love,
and hope,
and home.

And in my heart I knew that one day I wouldn't be with him anymore.

I would turn to my lover and whisper between kisses,

"I remember the first boy i ever fell in love with."

or

I would turn over to my lover in-between kisses and whisper,

"I remember the first time I fell in love with you."

And god ****** did I hope it was the second one,
because he was mine,
and I was his,
and we were each others.

January 21, 2014.

One day this will just be another date.
And 2014 will just be another year on a long timeline.

And the music we thought was cool; will be old.
And the music before today's generation; will be ancient.
And the generations before that; will be unheard of.

All the movies we thought were amazing, will be nothing but *"classics" to them.
All the books that Hemingway and Jane Austen wrote will cause them to have to think about where they've heard those names before.

Time is not manipulative.
You can not pause it.
You can not rewind it, nor fast forward it.

Yet, you can live in it.

So, live for now, not then.

c.r.k.

i.
some days are more
worth living than
others; today is not
one of those days

ii.
your words stay pinned
on my mirror, and i
don't know if i am
keeping them there to
torture myself
or to remind myself
that i should stay
alive

iii.
i used to be okay,
and i don't know how
i ever was that way
or how to get back

iv.
you used to draw maps me
on my arms; nobody knew where
they went except for
you

v.
i want go where
you do, but i don't know
how to find you

A lack of presence
left the blind poet saltier than Scrooge.
He drowns in ink
clutching the hand of his past.
Transparent with an iron grip
he'll never let go.

The grip of the pen
finally has him feeling life between his legs.
Straddling his fears
being on top makes him feel complete.
Atop Mt. Olympus
the high feels more noble opposing the mere mortals.

Romanticism is the seed he sows into the ground.
Sprouting a tree tall
that none can climb.
He looks out his window
marveling at his roots.

The poor fool will never learn.
Through this frame
he is destined to brood.
Alone
he will fantasize his next epic.
Rather creating it.