I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

Bittersweet,
lick the rim,
feel the chill,
on your skin.
Piercing liquid,
climbs down your throat
Yet lifting up,
in the room you float.
Your vision struggles,
to keep up.
As you tip the glass,
and begin to ****.
And a grin streaks your face
But it lacks it’s natural grace.
Artificial happiness,
Results in bitter loneliness.
Regret always follows,
When the day strays to tomorrow.
Addiction keeps you faded
Far into the moonshine
You have waded.
The bad taste
Turns times to waste.
Your twisted into a wicked trick.
Whisky dreams come and go too quick.
But life keeps going
The pain,
still growing.
Without you even knowing.

They are

                monotony.

Pulchritudinous

               ­               aesthetics,

Alleviation

                      to­

                             seclusion.

Do you not feel the heat – my wrist on yours
burn tales more rich than ours on nights more dark
than souls too tense to feel the eyes of God
draw shame on backs of necks so close?

Or is it

                                                             ­                                                                 ­        just me?

Conjuring

                    fraudulence

Accrediting

   ­                    ludicrous

                                          buoyancy

I know its there I know the life that flows
through limbs of mine can move through cloth to touch
the skin of yours I hear your eyes I see your voice
I breath you in why else are we so close?

And

          innocent

And

            serene

And

  ­          happy




And

                                        ­                                                                 ­                                    secluded.




How can you sit not feel those things I feel
not think those thoughts I think not see your wrist
sink in to flesh as soft and pink as lips
I long to taste? We are al-ways al-ways
al-ways al-ways al-ways al-ways

so close...



They are

                 tolerable

Doused

               ardor

                            maybe.

Benumbed

            ­           incandescence

                                                  ­  maybe.

But still

               They are
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                             here.

All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies

I lowered my bucket into the well of words
And raised it up, hand over fist,
While syllables and phrases sloshed about,
Some spilling over
In my eagerness to drink them deep.

Oh, how I wanted to be filled up.


The words poured out,
And they emptied into the clay jar of my disconnected soul,
Rubra terra terra firma incognita
Plant me deep and water these roots.
(Am I real? Will I always be?)

And oh, how they filled me up.

I spoke the words aloud,
And they slithered between the cracks of my shattered glass self,
Amber crackled sunlight streaming right on through,
It looked like I would go on forever (and ever, ever)

And oh, the words broke me open.