I've been told
I seem cool 
from a distance,
and that I'm amazing 
if we manage
To get close.
It's too bad, then,
that I never learned 
how to navigate 
the middle grounds.

I know you can't get
from point A 
to point C
without a few trips over
the long winding
bridge
that is point B.
But I can't face my fear
of heights
or of what little is there 
to catch us
should it all collapse.

The fear of heights
Isn't really what it seems,
though.
I'm more afraid 
of waking up one morning
only to realize
I've forgotten how to fly
than of flight itself.

The biggest weakness I have
is my ability to love something
one day
and begin to tire of it
the next.
I find myself getting over
things sooner than I
can find their replacement. 

And I guess, 
amidst the womb 
that is
my ability to bore,
to forget, 
my fear 
of not being caught
developed.

Songs playing in the background
of a cold winters day
Fog clouds up the air, in the most depressing way
I'm sitting on the inside
and that's where I'll stay.
To depressed to move,
wish the pain would go away.
I remember what he told me
this time last year.
we were meant to be together
I swore he was sincere.
He broke promises
as I shed tears.
I guess this whole time I knew
what I really feared.
This game
My shame
his hearts not tamed.
Someone please save
me.
I want a new love to forget
everything he ever said.
I want a new lover in my bed
to cover up these tears I shed.
I want a new lover
but now is not the time.
because I hold these secrets,
and I know that love is blind.
I want a new lover
to put all this behind.
I want something to be all of mine.

If there was another way to say it;
An easy way for you to understand...
I would not be pouring out these words
In an attempt to paint a picture.
I wouldn't be desperate to bottle
My emotions and thoughts
Into these stained glass letters,
With the tin syntax lid.
Poking holes through the top
Of my head,
So you could see.
Firefly ideas.

I am a photographer of hearts and minds.
The blood red room holds
My negatives.
How can I make them easier for you to see?
The composition so sweet,
The lighting so contrasted with
The shadows hiding the everyday.

What I really want you to do is stop reading.
Go look into the eyes of a lover.
Go hold a child's hand while they sing.
Listen to the wind change.
Feel the pulse of a city.
Cry with old wrinkled skin
For youth and life, and hope.

That is what my poem means.
It is a pulsing picture
Held captive in rhetoric.

There's a man mopping his brow after
    a Nobel-worthy experiment.
And there's a man mopping the floor after
    he leaves.

There's a man who has a scoop on a
    thrilling story.
And there's a man scooping ice cream,
    yearning to find a thrill in it.

There's a man picking a new car,
    a fiery red convertible.
And there's a man picking grapes,
    his back burning on fire.

There's a man singing his lungs out for
    thousands of people.
And there's a man singing away in the mines,
    his lungs already out.

There's a man who makes life happen
    with his wallet,
And there's a man who can't afford to,
    a circumstance made by life.

There's a man.
And there's a man.

always burning,
because my eyes roll back into my head
when i see you.
always tasting,
because my mouth tastes like bitter cinnamon.
always blind,
because the magenta of sunrays
filters through my retina &
dapples my brain.
white eyes, ****** nails,
always grasping,
because everything is silent underwater.

the fluorescent light, shaped like memory
tries hard to stay on, to be of use
in the garage
in the attic
in the kitchen.
the rest of this town just stays off-
a stage behind a curtain, a door removed from its hinges.
and the people dancing on the other end
are orphans in the open, abandoned and excited-
and I am in love with weekend democracy.

moving on..

her face is red like cancer,
I pretend not to notice
but burst like diamonds from the mine
and now her secret is aggressive
and chases me through the acid baths
and death camps of Baghdad.
we are at war.
we are bullets inside a terrible machine.
we are deus ex machina.

moving on..

once you were beautiful,
undrugged and free of molestation. God still rode on
training wheels and pretty prayers-
gee baby, ya remember the days?
a youthful version before the *******,
before the black Iris grew,
before the sparks turned blue.
O soft poison. O innocent spew,
I love you.