I share a bed
With anxiety
It's no wonder I can't sleep.

Life is but a grade, isn't it?
A silent message drilled in every day
an unwritten rule,
Undeniably implied:
we're all just letters on
The blankest of white space.

Those jagged coloured crosses
Pierce me every time
a zero on that question,
An X through all I write
Again and again
Like a thorn through my skin
And my every fibre of confidence.
The artificial longing to improve
***** all the passion from within.

whatever happened to hobbies?
To our hopes and our dreams?
To the thrill of the stage
Or the big silver screen?

All now come second
To that letter on that sheet.
It's a new kind of sickness
chokes those who try to breathe.

lock those dreams in a safe, son,
hunker down,
Make me proud.
Those old dreams don't exist, son,
Just a grade,
in sloppy ink.

I'm a steamroller on a highway,
Unstoppable, and gripped by craze.

'Get out of my way! I'm coming through!'
My vision's blurred, I'm trapped in a haze.

I swerve to the left, then swerve to the right.
Through the windshield, I see the moonlight;

Bright and shining; shining, bright,
Everything is coherent in that bright light.

The bang shocks the ride, and the glass shatters;
It's that rare moment of clarity...

The weeping bark is my destiny,
And I swerve again to meet the tree.

I've broken through my shell,
And I stand exposed.

So this is how the levee breaks...
I can hear the river barging as it explodes.

My crystal barricade has been breached.
There's no escape, there's no defense.

The night's conspiracy is in fruitition.
And I rest my case, cease pretense.

The moonlight was a gentle kiss,
On this night, it wasn't alone...

You were the target I was destined to miss;
I'd lost the mortgage for my time loan.

--

My number was up, I was your slave
Funny how that worked out

On saving you,
My core reactor burned out.

The little boy in the moonlight
Was the reason for my demise.

Were you my personal demon?
Or my salvation, my prize?

--

You devoured me, I worshipped you.
Then up you got, and there you left.

Guess you were my demon then...
You abandoned me, bereft.

I don't quite know how I'd describe the taste of your lips, but for now I'll go with the rim of an old porcelain teacup, or soft rain from a bruised sky, or kerosene, you're about to set my tongue on fire with the taste of your love. You're an uprooted tree from a ghost-town-like night, filled with screaming tornado sirens and broken windshields from gulf sized hail. You could carry me quite far, you were damp new leaves weathering from Fall's best storm, and I destroyed you just as completely. With you, I like to forget boundaries, I like to let you dance on my fingers, and let my mouth hang ajar when you punch my jugular, stealing the breath I breathe. You always reach for my hands like they need rescue, they are safe in my pockets, safe by being still, not black and blue knuckle shaking fighting fists. I find you in scalding water, as I wash the past off of my history book hands, my Father has an anger building up in his throat, he knows about our love, the love we never say out loud, the love we don't want anyone to mourn for, he wants to preach a different kind of sermon, a sermon mouthed with cracked sidewalk-like hands, a broken heart, grease stained jeans with worn knees, tired eyes, and an unshaved beard, and chapped lips and a tasteful tongue ready to throw swear words at me like rotten tomatoes, but I can only hear the time bomb in his voice-tone. My teeth are doors, but they only welcome certain types of people in, people like you. You're that abandoned building with a Danger sign hammered to a white chipped painted door, and I'm so happy I judged you for what's inside. Before you, I never experienced any touchy touchy feely feely crap, but you have the veiniest arms, like the roots of a tree cling to you. My hands get all clammy, my palms get soaked, as if I'm holding the ocean in my hands, this is what sweaty palms of nervous love is. I find you in muddy rain puddles, I feel like I'm splashing around in the color of your eyes. I find you on my fingertips, the scent of your favorite food, French fries, lingers in between my fingers. Do I burn your skin with my furnace-like touch? Are my finger tipped fingerprints really trails of left behind scars from a burning match? You make me want to scratch at walls, these walls around me don't feel like home, I'm chipping away wallpaper in hopes I'm chipping my way through your chest, I'm searching for your heart. I've done a lot of thinking, you taste like rusty spigot water, but I can't stop drinking you, it's like I'm living in a drought and you're my only source of water supply. All the words you speak have a certain echo, and echo that lacks reverberation. Your words taste like you learned the hard way. I'm going to hold your hand so long you start to question what's wrong with me, I'm going to stare into your eyes for a long period of time and you're going to nervously smile and say you have to use the restroom. I want to love you so hard the sky explodes into pink and orange jealousy. Autumn is beautiful, much like our love, (the leaves change color), like our cheeks when we blush pink, (then gathered into piles), like you and I picked up each other's broken shattered vase-like hearts, (and then burned), like our love burns more and more passionately day by day.
(k.m.m)