It comes on
and he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
(This song saved your life.)
The radio blares the **** of the latest joke, but songs
aren't allowed to save lives any more so you keep quiet.
Music isn't a cure, and The Cure have been long out of style and
it happened
before anyone had ever heard of Twenty One Pilots anyway and
since long before Rose killed herself with a twenty pill crash diet.
it happened
but he laughs and you laugh nervously along.
Those chords saved your life
But "can you believe we
ever listened
to this song?"

The sunset looks beautiful with the windows rolled down
and you wonder how you ever survived this long, anyway.

Fingers touch my lips,
run through my hair,
undo my tie, and fits of laughter
cut through the noise and chatter
of an anxious mind.

I leave my worries behind,
pressed against her dress
on the floor with my discarded tie.
An echo. A kiss. A sigh.
What it is to be alive!
What it is to be alive.

His teeth brush her skin and she flinches.
Breathy gasps on shifting eyes
Slide across the icy air, and inches
Of separation mark porcelain lies.

Porcelain teeth mark crimson brands
And whiter still the skin where wedding bands
Rested not long ago
Upon skin that recoils from his perfect hands.
And choices that only she can know.

I'm tired of deleting my sadness.

Beautiful prose is my pride, but pride can be broken
just like a heart weary with the world, and soft spoken
words can cut me like any other man. I bleed. I need
love and laughter and starlight and music in my life.
We all need poetry and dancing in the kitchen and flowers.
Yet... The power of my words isn't a sacrifice,
and this language is not an altar to your smile.

I haven't bared my soul in quite a while, and for you to tell me not to...
Bite me. **** your needs and *******.

I'm tired. I'm weary. My normal flights
of fancy and music and puns and laughter
are taking a reprieve. Skip over it if need be.
These words are mine to seek for shelter
and this page is mine on which to bleed.
Sometimes my playlist is full of spite
and tonight "Welcome to the Black Parade"
is really just what this recovering punk needs.

I recycled rhymes, penned cliches,
and god help me today I don't care.
Here's the exhibit. My wrists on a canvas.
Feel free to snicker.
Feel free to stare.

Let these creaking bodies play
the melodies of lust and test
my mettle upon the metal grey
and cold upon this weary chest.
I knew those lips would tear away
that skin, and those eyes my heart infest.
I knew my mind had gone astray
when I realized I knew who knew me best.
And her lips tasted like metal
And she boiled my emotions in a kettle
And she played lines on my chest like treble
and bass notes rose from my throat
and those lips sung slashes for the rest.

Blood drops and rosy petals are,
As are Sunsets and summer skies.
Too, your lipstick and my beating heart,
Two blushing faces,
Two crying eyes.

Your long coat and wavy hair are,
As is winter's warm demise.
Too, by firesides which warm weary hearts,
I see that color graces
Too our breathless sighs.

Two shades of the same longing.
Two heartbeats: yours and mine.

I've given up writing December.
I swear I tried, but these lines
don't seem to care; The drugs never work.
The haze of blinking eyes and wasted time
feels like infinity. I want to misremember
those wide eyed faces and your smirk
when you said you were mine. (Words like knives.)
I knew it was fatal as soon as you whispered that lie.
I swear... I've given up this December.
My words can't dig up the dirt
to bury these Winter memories
and these lonely goodbyes...

I'll take a bitter kiss
if it heals the pain in my chest.
Bed-sheets stink of hate and unrest;
My nostrils fill with the smell of blood.
Hers. Mine. Ours. It smells like regret.
   But all is well;
It must be for the best.

Still I'll take a bitter kiss
over a night of hateful, fierce ***
  If it heals the pain in my chest,
  If it's what you think is best,
  If it calms this weary flood.
                                            These sheets stink of blood.
                                             Cut me until I cannot heal;
                                            Steal me until I cannot feel.
           Then I will rest, alone in a field
                                  of scarlet flowers
                              and azure starlight
                                     and no regrets.

My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.

It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.

I should write you November,
and I swear I tried, but our lives
aren't fair, and this time love isn't sweet.
The leaves have stopped their tumbling dives
through infinity. The wind won't remember
a time when I moved sound so complete
that it shattered time. (When you first became mine.)
I knew it was stupid as soon as I uttered that line.
I swear I tried to write you November,
But my words can't compete
with these Autumn lovers,
and these passionate crimes...

I should write you October
and I swear I tried, but pens
aren't ribbons, and this time ink isn't red.
The autumn wind whips through the fens.
The chorus line is silent and sober.
The lead singer was found dead
under the bridge. (Haha get it?)
I knew it was stupid soon as I said it.
I swear I tried to write you October
but my heart heavy head
is full of Autumn clovers
and fickle friends.

Armchairs and whiskey.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into his shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his wearied woe.

The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could. Rachmaninov understood.

*******, Pavlov.

Times are tough. Just a puff. One moment of despair.
Just a hair on a razor's edge. Just one step off heaven's ledge;
I'll dangle, before my wings
smoke
and fall from my back.
Just a puff.
Wings are for saps.

("And it's done," he whispers. "Too late to turn back.")
One failure is unconscionable to the voice in my ear.
There's time yet for that.
There's time yet for that.
My mantra reminds me of that will that I lack.

I'm better now.
Beat. Shake. Hands shake.
You okay? Blink. "I'm fine."
(Don't think. It's not a crime
to feel like your skin doesn't fit.)
To not really want to quit
any more. Hands shake. Beat. Blink.
Break. Boots quake.
Blisters pop inside your brain.
You okay? Blink. What?
"Sorry. Just not sleeping well."
(Going through Hell. Can't tell you that.)

I'm fine. Thanks for the sympathy.
(Throw me a line.)

Shiver. Beetles under my skin
wear top hats in my fever dreams.
They dance on pinprick goosebumps in
the pale fabric of my shirtsleeves.
Crawling. Aching. Never let it stop.
I need it more than it needs me.
Lock up my addiction; Throw away the key.
Gasping. ******. Never let it stop.
One more drag.
One more drop.
Lock up my addiction; Set me free.

Clenching. Teeth. Rattle. Sleep
is a memory.
She is dead to me... Or so I said.

Screaming. Teeth. Clench. She
is a memory.
Sleep won't erase this shaking dread.

Cigarettes. Teeth. Corks. Whiskey
is an elegy.
It reminds me there's a world outside my head.
Or so they said.

I am a falcon for you, my love.
The wren may sing; The lark may try
his hand at the heavens; The dove
may coo, but for you? I will dive
                                steep, like falling,
                                deep, like what's calling
                    me to
                                L
                            ­      E
                                     A
                                        P through this sky so blue...

                                Weep when we say "I do".

                                          I am a falcon, love,
                                 but I'll D
                                               I
                                                (V)
           ­                                        E
                                                     only for you.
                                                    If you ask me to; But speak fast.
                                                   The sky's forever far away and above.
                                                          ­But before my dive takes me past,
                                                           I can say this to you at least; at last,    
                                                           My dearest,
                                                        ­   My only,
                                                          T­he sky's forever far away and above,
                                                          ­But for me heaven lives in your eyes.
                                                           ­     I saw you and  
                                                           ­                            fell
                                                                ­                            in
__________­____________________­____________________­_______

Vibrations in lilac
across a silver face.
That's the image of you
that I conjure and brew
in my cauldron. I waste
no imagination; It's Lilac.
Silver and vibration. Back
to the time when we were new
and untouched by the black brew
that I stir in my mind when I think of you.
But now, when I think of it...
The world's boiling over.
and I don't know what to do.

If your lips ever chap
when they feel my fire
I will know the end is what you desire.

If your cheeks ever shake
at the touch of my hands
I will yield to your unspoken demands.

If your hair ever splinters
at my fond folding caress,
I will leave from my hands every silken tress.

But should those eyes shine
when they meet my own sight
I will endeavour forever to be with you tonight.

Gift to me affirmation, consolation;
Gift to me longing laughter's delight.
I will endeavour forever to be with you tonight.

Worn converses scuff the floor.
     The crowd sings, and they roar
     his name. Things aren't the same
     like anonymous Mondays before.

He pulls out his strings. Silence.
Steel vibrates and sings; Violence
erupts and again he hears his name.
It isn't the same... but he finds it
strangely fitting; On this stage
he's the benefactor and the tyrant.
He's the laughter, killing quiet.
It's not your average Monday
but no surprise, he finds he likes it.

Never been there.
Can't talk about it much.
I've seen shadows on the wall.
Crying faces in my dorm hall.
I've seen reflections of friends
in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD.
Can't talk about it much.
It's not a subject I like to touch.
Never been there.
Never talking like I've seen it all.
They have. Ask them what it's like to fall
down and check your face for scrapes
and have other people put band-aids
on your ***. ("Oops, my mistake!")
Or better yet, don't.
Don't ask me.
Don't ask them.
They can talk.
I've never been.

If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend.
But don't ask. Don't reopen the PTSDen
of pain and the past. Just listen if they ask.
Have some ******* courtesy till then.

Sweet dagger, pierce that midnight beauty,
that walks like cloudless climes and starry skies.
Go now, men, and do your duty.
Steal the schemes of other rhymes.

I am the captain of my ship; I am the master of metre and time.
I've mastered the art of thieving wit.
I've stolen the fame of men long dead
and staked my claim to the fruits of their minds.
I can write words yet unsaid;
But I've not the mind;
I've not the inclination;
I've not the creativity
to write my own lines.

If this rings too close to home,
perhaps you ought to write your own.
More likely though,
you'll just steal mine.

Time is all he has left to waste.
Razors in his pocket, not for his face.
Pictures in his wallet, of his kids, not her face.
Not her mocking smile. Not her teeth made of lace.
Not her... Not him. Just a train ride to Boston.
A cigarette in the shadow of what's left of this place before the bell rings
                     it tolls for thee.

It's a lonely track in an alley.
It's another wrist run tally.
It's drops wet from his wrists.
It's those picture-frame kids.
No memory can fill the mist
in his eyes; It can't replace
the blood dropping like a surprise
party at eight. Tears don't fall from his face. At this pace...
Trains don't stop at Boston. They don't care about his kids.
They stop only till the next sad jazz-man pops in ready to erase.

The bell rings. He ceases to matter as the next guy shuffles in.

Shall we lie upon an aching bed,
and speak of gentler things?
The sheets are rough on calloused hands,
broken from the onus of strangling, stifling rings.
The pillows feel like granite tombstones,
and though your cries are loud and low,
I feel us drifting apart together.
In this bed of dirt, we are alone.

Arms are weak and withered,
and the strings won't heed his shaking hands.
Pain's his only feeling, and that can't convey
what his gasping heart hungers to say
About her smile.. about her eyes,..
about her gasping breaths so frail and grey.

The symphony has begun
Playing mellow tunes
Beckoning the arrival of death
At the expense of him.
But his strings won't let him
Change the way the music is going,
His clammy hands trembling,
Shaking,
Breaking.
(He wore his heart on his hands.)
All he can do is watch
And listen
As the music drifts,
Deeper, slower...
Until her heart
Stops.

Arms are weak and withered, holding
cards upon the table. Folding
never was his strong suit anyway.
He waits a while in silence, knowing
her pain is no nearer to slowing.
Growing screams beckon plugs to pull away.
He doesn't know what's left to play,
but his withered fingers seem to know the way.

She listens as the melody starts,
and falters as she closes her eyes.
Arms are withered weary,
as the music slowly dies.

But as the silence comes around,
It revitalizes an old strength.
Calling upon the fundamentals of
An art once forgotten,
But its tremors will now resonate.

Tremors mark his trembling hands,
and the music is April, alive and new.
The monotone flat-line droning on
is in metronome time like when they were young,
and he matches her tempo, like they used to do.
He plays her life, her laugh, her smile...
The music stops, and after a while
the day is through. And he thinks to himself...
*Tonight is over... and there's the dawn...
But it marks the start of a day...
                                                   without you...

I was born with a baseball bat
in hand. I had walk-mans and dreams.
I had "Let's go to college"
I had "Shoot for the moon."
If I could travel back,
and tell that kid what to do.
I'd say
"You wouldn't believe
the revolution coming for you. "
"Run. Get away. You'll never be free."
"There's nowhere to hide from these blinking lights
and these screens."
"Cherish your days of Summer in the grass.
Cherish those boring Monopoly nights."
"Technology is everywhere
And the Kid's Aren't Alright."

April blossoms bless my ears,
as she sings of falling leaves and snow.
Summer lives in every utterance;
Every note fulfils my soul.

Fairgrounds on the meadow glade.
Cloudless blue, and the green below...
I see it all behind her eyes; The skies
are Springtime when I hear those notes.

Vivaldi claims that seasons change,
and begin with falling leaves and snow.
When she sings, why then is it Spring?
The leaves fall fast, but the blossoms fall slow
in time with her voice, and my heart so aglow.

Words are just words.
Though they move with a flow
to match the rivers of my soul.

Though they bend like my bow.
Though they showcase it all:
The love. The hurt.
They're just words.

Though they sing like my strings,
though they can be sung; they sing
hollow;

My strings and my bow
prove to me words are words.
Why then, do these phrases
showcase my soul?

My violin is my muse,
and I know it seems obtuse
to say that words are just words.
But I wish I could play for you all.

Then you'd see my soul
in crescendo...
                     Not simply this piece of the whole.

When my Juliet calls, and my soul is weary.
I briefly fold, and long to follow that path I can't attempt.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and let our embrace shake the stars,
But the will to live wins over a world without a Capulet

It's the hardest decision that I'm never going to get,
because the path of least resistance is
the path I can't accept.
It's because my life is never ready.
The poison's on her lips already.
Hands are shaking, Blade is steady.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart,
and gift to me this path of sweet regret.

      Romeo is cold and weary,
     Oblivion is singing cheery
                 Songs for
            what he longs for
             and the night;
             and the blade
              shines alight
with blood so cold and wet.

She watches them together,
as her breath stops with a catch,
and her heart aches, pulled by tethers
made of love and lonely sadness.

He laughs. Briefly she can't help
but think that they'd be better.
She watches by herself,
and slowly drives herself to madness.

There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.

And I
want you to realize
what your lashes hide away.

And I
want to be behind those eyes
when you look at me that way.

And I
feel my irises dilate, and my glance falls astray
from those orbs that mesmerize and catastrophize
my love struck brain,

And I
Just wonder, as my heartbeat flies...
As my gaze takes in the flush of your cheeks... (as I flush mine)
Though that gaze won't dare rise
to those laughing stars on your face.
I wonder... Tell me, since I'm suddenly shy.
Do your eyes... does your heart dilate the same?

I wished upon a starry face,
as you fell frantic through that azure ceiling
at a frightful, worrying breakneck pace,
but your face was on my mind that evening.

The blue's your life, in dizzying hues,
It's acid drops and dub-step tunes.
It's the the manic highs and crushing trenches.
It's playful talks on park-side benches,
right before we kiss goodbye. Then I realize
your lipstick is blue too.

It's like a bruise, sitting there on my cheek,
and it's a pain - If I can- I'd like to keep.
Because this evening, you're on my mind.
And the sky is the color of your eyes.

Azure, frantic, and so alive.

There's a light inside your mind.
It's time to coalesce, don't hide
that fire burning bright and fierce.
That spark's what makes you real; alive.

Rainbow banners on metal poles
tall and proud; They stand strong and stout.
It's far past time for ashen cold.
It's time those rays come roaring out.

Look into the light and decide.
"Now's the time to come alive."
Burn within and blaze without.
The Phoenix sings when it comes out.
It's a song of victory and pride.

It's okay. You're allowed to fear- to doubt-
but just remember when you're standing out:

I'm standing right there by your side.

Grey is the color of my eyes.
They stare past meadows and glades,
probing the blues and reds of sunset skies
to find black stone, dead and alone
where this vibrant life, may atone
and die.

I tire of these sensational tales;
these tear jerking moments of love and loss.
There are no tears left to pour from this grail
of dead wood. There are no more coins to toss
into this well of souls; tired and alone;
dead and lost.

In that well;
In those eyes;
Grey reigns king over fickle trust.
In this naked temple, on knees so tired.
I pray for an end to love and lust.
In this heart of frozen steel and wire,
I beg you. Let me rust.

Subtle melody,

Wrack my body. Let me see the Springtime's sunny day.
The wind was once my muse, but now my music's gone away.
Ease the sting of thumbscrews;
cut through weary moods of black and grey.
Where once fingers danced and called the wind,
now those hands can't hold a violin
aloft over my heretic's heart,
and broken fingers cannot play.

The wind will sing no pagan songs upon these broken strings.
Where once I was the prince,
now in sorrow, crown your king!
Fingers once waltzed with the wind,
but through jealous glances
of bitter men,
No song again is ever ushered in.
The sky will never sing
again.

In every stillness lies a whisper.
Gyrating bodies smoulder quicker
than the wick that sickly flickers
from the wind that will not kiss her.

In every kiss there is a silence,
ruled over by tapping tyrants
that exist within the quiet,
No one denies their raucous violence.

In every mind there is a fear,
slow to speak and hard to hear.
In every heart that safe appears,
there are veins that bleed soft tears

and through all the lonely years, I've found
nothing is as kind as it appears. I frown

as she whispers in her sleep, through dreams silent and severe.
Her heartbeat softly weeps, and her demon softly cheers.

Blossoms shine the same
pink as the horizon sheds.
Sunsets mark her eyes.

Sunlight dreads retreat
from black lungs that weep and bend.
Watching from the shade.

I'll keep you in my sight
with this lonely light I hold aloft.
I'll ward away the dark and fright;
I'll safeguard when your soul is lost.

I'll keep you from harm within my arms
that circle round your shaking form.
No need for tears or wide eyed alarm;
My arms will shield you from the storm.

I don't mind sharing this lonely cross,
whose bearer's face looked so forlorn,
Let me safeguard those tearful eyes so lost.
My arms will shield you from the storm.

Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.

Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
                            
                                                     Al Coda
                                                Let's try this again,
                                                ere this depression,
                                                this lonely obsession,
                                                eats away at my brain.

Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.

Ringed fingers run across sculpted chests,
and they don their red stained lipstick vests.
"Roxanne" plays in the background,
and it feels like raindrops falling down,
because my eyes are cold, and blue, and wet.

Misty eyes and tired smoke
breathe deep through aching, weary lungs.
We cry in alleyways and choke
on strange bedfellows with probing tongues.
My heart is filled with tear stained jokes.
My jeans are filled with crumbled ones.

Enshrouded in mist,
far flung shores requite nothing.
Lonely eyes watch hushed.

Tonight there is no moon
and the purple skyline
bleeds the color of my skin.
There is no wind.
There is no time.
There is no sin.
There is no moon.
Only those aching shades of blue,
and the ruptured veins within.

Do, re, tiring **me.
Fa, So, Latte sounds good.
A sale on tea?
Do ti la "So, how are your scales going?"
My teacher calls; he wants to know.

"FAr from REady." I admit.
I tried to practice steady,
but starbucks had a sale today, so I quit.

"You'll never make the grade like that;
Devote every hour" He says with a glower.
"Go practice your bow. Coffee can wait."
He's right of course, but I still take the bait.

How's a coffee-enthusiast like me
expected to practice enthusiastically?
What's a violinist without caffeine to keep his lights turned to "go"?
When Starbucks conspires to take all my hard earned DOugh?

Winter. Snow falls into my hand... melts in my palm.
A frozen brand. A stinging balm.
These whispered words are far from calm.
These frightened tears are far from gone.

Whispered words cut like the crack of a whip,
hot like the slowly melting snow,
in the wake of furious words below.
Hearts run cold like icy ground beneath shaky feet stepping quick
into the slowly sinking snow. Whispered words in metronome,
fill my head, though I and He are here alone.

I was not prepared for this confrontation.
In desperation, my feet refuse to slow;
Frightened tears and feet like metronomes;
I am running scared, and I fear I do not know
what words tonight might lead me safely home.

Lips of velvet pursed and mocking;
Eyes watching, flattered and bemused.
I've never felt so whole before,
just as I've never felt so wholly used.

Chocolate skin and silver lace,
Behind soft whispers, and pretty lies.
lines of worry mark her perfect face,
as she turns to face my knowing eyes.
                    I've never felt so whole before;
                    I wish I felt wholly more surprised
                        not by the fire in her stare;
                          by the red flowers in her hair;
                                but by the cologne scented letter
                                             on the floor with her sweater
                                                 she thinks I didn't see her hide...

Sitting by the your side, it feels like we're meeting for the first time
all over again, our feet swinging over the edge of the dock...
I catch my breath. I never knew how this could feel.

Eyes open wide, as if I'm seeing for the first time.
Making love within our small talk,
everything seems at once so present and surreal.

Hearts swaying with the tide, as if they're beating for the first time,
I never knew that it could feel like this.
It's like the sky and the sea are merging; fading away behind your eyes,
and slowly, on the dock, we tilt our heads
reaching for what feels like our first kiss.

I caught her singing "Clair de Lune"
when she thought my gaze had wandered to
the girl from the bar, in the red dress and blue shoes
who snag happier, more uplifting tunes;
not that sad, quiet beauty by the light of the moon.

I caught her sighing, pining for release
from the pain of what she was feeling then
Her heart filled her lungs, and she sang out again
that lonely, impossible masterpiece;
that showcase of her heart's discontent.

I wept; should have come from my hidden den
but instead I watched, silent tears blurring my sight.
Though I should by rights have swept her into my arms,
I watched as she sang "Clair De Lune" long into that lonely night,
unsure if my presence would bring to her face a smile... or alarm.

The first, if I could but for a moment see, I'd trade away my immortal soul.
The second, rather than let it be, I would happily die,
                                                                                     silent and alone.

Satan plays the violin; the same shape and tone as mine.
The devil passes time in Hell by playing fiddle,
and if I had to guess; I think that's the reason why
he knows the answer to life's riddle,
because its trilling's the only feeling filling
enough to get away with that beautiful lie.
It drowns the screams of the ****** that died;
                                                                ­          and briefly
                                                         ­                     tells us we are still alive.