I know it sounds cliche', but I'm waiting for You.
I'm not waiting for who you could be,
for the concept of you, or the idea
and I don't hold out hope for the feeling of you.
I don't hold out hope for the taste of your lips,
or the feel of your skin,
or the feel of your tongue wrapped around mine as we kiss,
passion melding with passion until it
can't be contained on a page...
until it sits as an empty stanza, because words can't explain it.
Like this:



(Insert Passion here)



It doesn't matter, because now, here,
I'm still waiting,
knowing that somewhere, destiny is also waiting
and destiny will have to keep waiting for a while yet,
but when I find her, I want so badly
for her to whisper in my ear
"Hey, lover. Cool it with the angst.
There's no need to be lonely any more.
I found you. I'm here."

I miss the taste of alcohol mixed with your sweat,
and the feel of your skin on mine as we first touched.
I can't bring myself to mourn the day we first met;
I can't bring myself to forget the way your skin blushed.

Our bodies were like puzzle pieces that badly entwined;
we didn't quite fit unless we forced it, and then the picture was wrong.
Still there was a beauty in the mistakes born of whisky and rhyme.
When we called it quits... There was regret when we both said goodbye.
There was regret when I went to your bed to give "us" one more try.
There was rage when I found that you weren't alone.

From the eyes of God and the minds of men,
Evening began Her gentle fall.
Twirling, a dancer through the midnight glen,
gleaming, a songstress and Her clarion call.

Spinning through motions rehearsed in moonlight,
leaping and landing in a laughing sprawl.
We watched, and He watched too, at the tantalizing sight;
We all watched as She danced, to a man enthralled;

Oh, how we laughed at Her gape, Her gall!
Yet He was not moved by Her frivolous lark.
Within Her laughter, He said, lay the shriveled dark.
A trickster, She was, in Her taunting fall.

I'll teach her, He whispered, the tune She should hark.

We waited in the alley till Evening came;
We stood by and watched in our bitter shame,
as He stole Her laughter and pride, and made Her His thrall.
She cried ****** as He took Her, and spat curse to His name.
We watched Him as His darkness shriveled. God forgive us, we watched,
Yet said nothing at all.

We told ourselves Her beauty drew His gaze; Her gall drew his Hell;
She brought it upon Herself... but the words ring bizarre.
Silent, we watched, as Evening fell;
Broken, we wept for the death of a star.

Am I looking for love in Alderaan places?
Most of my SerenityXEnterprise ship jokes go over her head.
I feel like a John Cusack boombox blaring out nineties-age spaces.
Like a comedy no one's heard of, I'm Better Off Dead
without the love I'm not sure that I can find because then is it
really possible to find The One like Neo? (Haha. Get it?)
Like (p+l)(a+n)=pa+pn+la+ln, (Okay, Deep Breath) the universe is trying
so hard to foil my love PLAN. (That one was ******, but the best I can present)
I know you'll be saying "I told you so" when
I realize the narrow parameters of my search are a little naive,
but don't say I'm the Average because that's just Mean!
My love is like Ash Ketchum; I need it to be the very best.
My love is like Ariel; If I leave you I wanna know I'll be mist!
I just needed to pull a Sasha Grey and get it off (on) my chest,
I've already got my music, rhymes, and make-up. Give me the Kiss.

He stares out into the darkness and the surf, waiting
     on a rocky chair molded from the side of the cliff... just waiting.
          His feet swing back and forth over the expanse, creating
          small showers of pebbles as they fall careening against the ledge.
     Theirs is the only motion to be seen, yet he does not look down, but out.
His eyes don't blink, and his lip is stiff, and his heart does not pound, but whispers a soft staccato beat into his veins, numbing his senses to the cold.
A ship appears on the horizon, and its gull white sails stand sharp
against the contrast of the night blackened sky, and in that moment
               his heartbeat stops...
                                                   but only for a moment;
                           for just that one moment.
Then in anguish it resumes, and its desolate beat plays on.
The sails are white, but they bear no red cross marker.
Flags of the wrong shade fly atop the mast, and the sky grows darker
as his feet swing against the cliffside, and his heart whispers consolation;
His heart beats desolation as he waits for another ship to come to harbor.

Today, I bled a little more.
Tomorrow I'll likely bleed again.
Such is the daily living chore
that life has become.
Such is the cursing crimson roar
of a fear of being done.
But what's to fear, I wonder?
Should I fear what's yet to come?

If I died tomorrow, I would go, I think where go all.
I would walk in Heaven's winding hall, or burn in pits below.
It matters little, if one is asked to be the avatar
of all that scriptures blithely claim;
A life well lived is a reward well bought, but what eternity can match a gift
so lovely and profane?

How can I be called a blackguard?
How can I be ****** to Hell?
If mortal sin is so ephemeral as an errant, earnest thought?
Was Faust so very wrong to sell
               something so heavy and cheaply bought?

I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered

"Stay...
          Thou art so beautiful..."

His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.

"Stay...
          Thou art so lovely."

I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."

My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.

But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of

     "Stay.
                            Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
                           Thou art so beautiful
                                              in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
                           Thou art so lovely
                                              in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.

Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,

Should I speak my last regrets tonight.