it does just so happen
that i very much like the sound of melancholy
and i revel in lyrics and sounds
i listen
hoping that the song will help
explain my own life to me
*and so it does

hello
if you're reading this,
im afraid you're reading a chapter
of.. well... me.
today he tried at least
he did
a compliment, or was it?
he looked for a reaction.
but can't I refuse?
a week of long nights
talking to a dear friend
whose name will not appear
trying to prevent the cuts on her skin
cant she refuse?
little things slowly weighing on my mind
every day I wish I were actually the
joyous person I make it out I am.
I'm afraid not
and this realization is something I can't refuse.

Each word
'curls'
around my heart
like smoke shaped, teasing
wispy fingers

I don't see it ..
               or feel it ..

                     but then my heart begins to tell me.

It moans
                and creaks

                             demanding that I listen.

I can't ignore it now
                            as it hurts.

I lay my hand upon my wounded chest
                               telling my heart,
                                            reminding it

   that we cannot feel this way
                                        
                    ­                          not today ..

                                                      not tomorrow.


                 My heart calms ..

                                     for now

        

                           but I know that it won't be for long.

Just a little ray of sunshine
peeking through to say hello
Just a little bit of sparkle
to this too late snow
Just a tiny bit of hope
that shines through
Just a little tiny wish
for me and for you

darling how I love you
t h i s   m u c h
but oh how much I hate to

to write like me
you must first review my routine
lift weights
take boxing lessons
drink beer in bars
laugh loudly in the street
sing karaoke every week
date women from different backgrounds
kiss like you mean it
and make love that soaks the sheets
take random trains
to far off places
work jobs until you hate them
and quit as you slowly go mad
then you will be half the poet I am
because I am still only half the poet
I know I can be
it's a challenge to balance
to juggle this routine
I am trapped between two loves
my love for life
and my love to write
between living life
and writing about it
between being alive
and writing about it
to me writing and living go hand in hand
but they cannot always co-exist
when you burn your light to the brink
as I do
i must find the line
but the line is hard to find
because there are only so many hours in a day
and life swoops us by like an owl
with a mouse in its mouth
leaving us with only a brief window
in which to carve a lasting legacy
beware this life style isn't for everyone
only the chosen few can pull it off
this artful existence
this vagabond life
a tiresome gift
from mischievious gods
who see themselves in us
but never mind kid
you are probably a better poet than me anyway