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.

My morning is simple; It always starts the same way.
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, repeat as many times more
as I need to repeat; 365, 24, 7, I can take it. Because at the end of the day,
I hit the sack, and then like clockwork; like a broken needle record on replay
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, and I'm out the door.

I work hard all day; when I'm not on the clock, I clock my punches at the gym.
I measure a punch-card for holes, or a punching bag for holds,
and I take pride in either; I forsake neither; I breathe in the aether
and breath out blood sweat and tears... but mostly sweat, truth be told.
My sweat is a constant, and I'll tell you; sometimes that gets old.

That's me though. I'm a fighter on the mat and in the cubicle. I write words so musical people say "That's beautiful," and it fills me with pride.
Words, fists, ink.
It doesn't matter; I give it my all every time and never stop to think
about the consequences it takes on my mind and my body; I don't blink
at the cracked knuckles bad punches provide.
at the cracked mirror that I look into after a bad review.
at the crack-*** asshats that talk down to me from their penthouse view.
at the minimum wage pockets full of pennies and dimes.

I don't blink; I don't think...
because if I did, I'd realize this is it. This is Hell.
But... I still wake up,
and put on my leather shell,
and then take it off when I hear the factory bell.
And I fall into bed with a smile on my lips;
Because one day life is going to be better than this.

The voice in the back; the one I don't listen to...
The cracks; the cynic's view, it screams "Life isn't fair! Life is just this!"
But I don't listen. I close my eyes and I make the American wish.
Life and liberty; with both I'm blessed.
But the second ones the one to bring a smile to these chapped lips.
Pursuit of happiness: Hell yes! I can get behind that wish...
So I'll Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, as long as my clockwork heart ticks.
Because I trust in justice,
even if it's only injustice. **Even if life's only just this.

I will fall down upon the mat, my breathing coming in ragged gasps.
I will fail to reach the peak, and I will lay me down in drained defeat.
Yet what a clamorous, shouting climb it was that heralded my fall.
Tomorrow my voice will rise a second time in another raucous, screaming call.

I will fail once more today, just as I did yesterday.
My muscles will contort and strain, yet my sigh but reports the first refrain.
Greater is the joy of having fought, far more so than losing's sorrow.
Isn't it a beautiful failure I've wrought that lets me get up again tomorrow?

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.

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...

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.

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 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.

She laughed out a challenge and pulled
capturing his heart with her hand and lifting it
like a marionette with aorta strings out of his chair.
Her golden hair, his mud brown hair, their skin bare
as the day they were born.

He brushed against her, and she pulled
his heartstrings again, dancing away, still laughing,
her voice the wind-chimes on his porch; the summer sun
could not shine so bright as her eyes... or was that the marionette
talking? His strings were sore from the movement.

She brushed against him, and he pulled her close
and they felt the strings snap and shivered
in the wintry chill from the bedroom window.
He closed the shades, and he pulled her close,
and she let the strings fall from her hands.
The summer sun could not outshine
the fiery lust in both their eyes.
Their passionate cries cried out in time
with the gentle cadence of a loving rhyme.

Squandered years whisper for release
from bitter sweet moments and the lonely now.
A kiss of sorrows gone too long unheeded
planted like a mercy killing upon that brow.
Memory passes coquettish, and I heed them
Skin passes unblemished, and I leave them
Her lips sparkle reddish, and I need them...
But lips must await the fulfilment of my vow.
As memory must abate to lips that disallow
their pain to share her bed;
their whispers in her head;
Lips that bring an end to sweet regrets
and when she wakes, this lonely Capulet
will find from her mind my lonely eyes
from memory are fleeting;
                                   fleeing;
                                            fled.

Lethe, planted gently on her brow,
from rain-soaked lips soft like regret.
Hidden like my eyes are hidden now,
Better to have loved and lost?
Better still, perhaps, to forget.

I met a man in church today, with hair so grey and eyes so old,
I thought to myself "If heaven had secrets, surely this man would know."
We talked for a while, and he spouted wisdom like a stream,
and I pondered what his cryptic advice might mean,
and we left together, out the gilded double doors of the church.

It was cold that day, but the birds still sang, and he remarked that it was so.
He mumbled to himself what would seem ordinary if I did not know
to look for more within his words, and ponder what I had the fortune to hear.
I thought long and hard, until I saw a sight that made it at once so clear.

I met a holy man in church today, and when we left Heaven for the earth below,
the genius opened the wide and gilded double doors, and ****** into the snow.

*******, Pavlov.

In verses clear and so sublime,
A man once said of what is right
Of his mistress of dark and piercing eyes,
"She walks in Beauty, like the night"
Yet for the splendor of her face,
And all the virtues he may surmise,
I see in her no saving Grace,
No Virtue cool or clear or wise
For behind a lover's back a dagger hides
Gleaming, waiting, cold and bright
And so the sane man shuns his prize
"She walks in Shadow, like the night."

I wrote a beautiful poem today,
and then I frowned when I saw it again.
Someone had stopped by in the comments to say
their own sonnet; they put their own poetry in my margins.

I'll be brief, and I'll be nice, and I'll attempt patience at least.
Clear and concise: I want your poetry, but not on my lawn.
I don't want it in graffiti in the margins of my piece.
Leave your words in your "New Poem" section where they belong.

I promise I'll look at them if you ask, and if I have the time.
If you want to reach more people, don't use me as a conduit.
I realize I said I'd try to be nice, but it would be a crime
if I didn't put it as blunt as possible, and honestly?
          If you need to plug your work that badly,
                                                         it's probably sh*t.

          If I inspire you with my words, then respect that inspiration;
          Please cease. Hawking your wares on my turf reeks of desperation.

"Is the glass half full?" He asked,
She said "There's no water left,"
"Are you ever nervous going out?"
"Scared half to death."
"I have a six pack of abs."
"Do I look like I care?"
"What does a guy need to have?"
"A smile. A brain. Nice hair."
"How about we go back to my place?"
"How about we no?"
"You look like you'd be a freak in the sheets."
"I think I should go..."
"What's your favourite song?"
"Anything that fills my head."
"Will I see you again?"
"Honestly, I think I'd rather be dead."

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.)

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.

Like all others, I hated high school.
It was a scrawny waif that I remember seated at the front of the class.
I raised my hand at every question to endless ridicule,
and people whispered I was weak for trying to be "such a smart-***".

Now people think I lack brains because I own a barbell and bench.
What they don't know is that it's all an extension of my first love: Science.

Every morning, I don my hooded polyester lab coat.
I write theorems in drops of sweat on a rubber padded mat.
I experiment with the practicality of the theorems I wrote;
I know my hypothesis is correct when veins bulge and muscles catch.

Breathing shallow, in ragged determined gasps of air,
I put my theory to the test. Veins bulge, muscles strain.
There is no joy like the joy I know when I find my theory correct. I call it
The Warrior Poet Principle: One can in fact have brawn as well as brain.

I've accomplished the task I set myself in high school's lonely halls,
I vowed that I'd never be that weak waif again.
Hiding bruises from pimple faced tyrants who had me by my *****,
I persevered, and I grew my thews and thesis in twain.

**Now by neither tyrant nor textbook will I ever be chained.

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.

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.

Once he ran the river, feet kissing the surf
as it rushed against the bank. His feet
moved in a blur, never landing on the earth;
They touched the waters, then flew free.

Now he runs a walker, heels dragging the dirt,
every step coming with more effort than he ever used to need.
He longs for the days before his soles hurt,
before Time broke his pride and capped both his knees.

When he was young, there was no force he couldn't exert,
now his feet touch the ground more than his pride can accede.
Fondly, he remembers the days before his soul hurt.
These days, kids call him "Old Man Allen";
         But back then...
                     his name was...
                                        *Speed.

I*             wasn't born in a hospital like most children are. I
am         made of soft thoughts, but too of hard muscular rivets; steel bars are
not         nearly so malleable as my arms. So far, so good, no need to be
afraid,    no need to be alone. There's no need to cry in the dark, wishing for

home      and a soft bed and warmth and food for my soul. My soul thrives; it
is             the howl of the wind on the mountain top; My soul lives in hardship.
Where     others tremble, I will not walk alone, because My soul lives in pain
The          pretenders; the snakes; the cowards do not sway. Because My soul is
Hard    Like my muscles, like my heart, like the place where I was born. It
is...              funny actually. I wasn't born in a hospital; I was born on the way.

I
Was
Born
Moving
Forward.  and I refuse to move back. Because **I am not afraid.

Roll the dice and watch them fall.
Whisper words to those waiting, wanting.
Twirl away across the dance floor, taunting
me with those eyes and with that carefree sprawl.

Embrace the lights and let the music flow,
my hands on your hips, your hands on my chest.
The tempo slows and time runs into arrest.
Hold me in your arms, and don't let go.

Sing with me to our favorite song,
the melody of the laughing chase
that ends in an honest, ardent embrace.
Sing with me, dance with me, all night long.

Join with me in the gambler's dance,
You don't need to join with me at the lips,
nor certainly need we join at the hips.
(Though if we did, it wouldn't be remiss)
Just share with me an airborne kiss;
take my hand, take my heart, take a chance.

My ears are stopped with tapers, so I'll hear no more
of this ****** farce you and he have going.
Every time you ask for more
abuse, I realize I'm better off not knowing.
But my playlist is full of sadness,
and the rest is a bore.
So your screams are my melody
and I'll listen as your blood keeps on flowing.

They say fools rush in, and more the fool you.
More the fool me too, to listen to
your pained cries for more pain,
as your skin is red glowing,
The bruise slowly growing,
as you exult in the sick high you get from his backhand;
as I listen to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus ask him
if he feels like a man.

There's no pain more complete tonight
Than the ringing in my tear soaked budded ears
when he says "**** my ****, *****"
with those lips so sweet... "and tight."
And you oblige, because you're too used to it to fear,
and it makes you feel beautiful,
because only angels weep, right?

That's the sad lesson heard here.
I bid my sad playlist goodnight.

You.

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.

You have a spark that blazes past my ice cold eyes,
you're the six on a weathered pair of bad decision dice.
You're the smoke in my lungs; my hip's friction's delight,
and you're where I want to be at the end of the night.

So pull me by my the clasps of my black leather coat,
past the bar, to the back, to the room that Aidan keeps aside.
Whisper in my ears, past the roar of alcohol and smoke,
these words that I've longed to hear for some time.

Say:
"You are the cherry on a cigarette; the blade of a knife.
You burn me and turn me to melting when you enter my sight";
I'll say:
"Your lips are my addiction, your *** is my television,
and your eyes are where I want to be at the end of the night."

Then we'll explore love and bad decisions on the table and the floor.
You'll pull me closer, bite my ear, and whisper. "Shut the door."

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.

Today
I am...                                                                                            I am but
                                                                                                       a shadow,
of who I was. A broken, grey thing.
                                                                                                     a voiceless
thing, miming lyric and ****** rhyme,
A broken watch that's keeping time
and the watch has hands, but it's
                                                                                                     faceless
and in the broken wiry strands, I'm
                                                                                                    hidden,
waiting to stop time, and rewind
back to the moment when you shared my misery.
But you broke free,
and now you mock me.
Your laughing life mocks me, leaves me
                                                                                                    raging,
and vainly                                                                                  hunting
How dare you be a beautiful something,
and leave me behind to be this ugly
                                                                                                    nothing.

My tie is formal; the coat's leather dark.
Face rugged; unshaven, eyes twinkling bright.
Perfect features form a question mark:
Would you care, perhaps, to stay the night?

If you told me no, you'd not be the first,
but I doubt you'd regret it over much
if you used my body to sate your thirst.
Just leave the money on the dresser, if that's your intent.
It's free to look, but it costs to touch;
Even pretty boys have to pay the rent.

Our souls were
        Heavy with

        Silence, on the night we parted.
        At least, they were to our ringing ears.
        Yet everyone could hear it but us, it seems.
        
        That sad melody of our hopes and our fears,
        Heard from miles and years
        Away... of sad romances and softly whispered dreams
        That our hearts told us could never be... They were right, it seems.

        You won't remember my face.
        Only echoes of my skin; like a portrait
        Under a portrait, painted over in every empty space
        ...
        Like so many failed paintings;
        Like so many failed...

        My hands won't even allow me to write.
        Isn't that
        Sick?So... Don't ask me to write any more. I won't ask you to
        Sing

        More. I'll write no further
        Eulogies for our failed sonata. Here's the coda. There's the door.
        ????   Isn't it funny? That we couldn't hear that sound before?
We were singing such beautiful songs, but they were
      Melodies that the singers couldn't hear. Isn't that the definition of ironic?
      And... Though I couldn't hear our last symphony, I would
      Dare say that could my ears have divined that melody...
      Every note had to be perfect. As if the composer of that song had designed it

To be sung in a duet....

She walked away, and I shouted back, "I'm not asking for forever!"
She stops. She turns in the aisle and sadly smiles.
"That's why I'm leaving." My own smile drops.
And that's the end of that endeavour. Because time never really stops.
Forever is all some people want, and they won't settle for just a while.
Even if a while is all that I've got.

He waits beneath the scarlet sea.
His voice is thunder, whispered quietly.
His eyes are faith, felt in fear and wonder.
His grasp is the course of finality.

Wretched like gold tainted ****** and plundered
by evils that wear the faces of men like a veil.
Scaly and pale. Dark, mighty and frail.
With a voice soft as thunder, and eyes like the moon
that move the sea in tandem with black hearts that fail
to see; to dream; to outlive their doom.

He waits in solemn and sacred slumber,
solemn in knowing his sacred duty to be.
Black eyes judge without remorse.
Cold scales clatter in ringing course,
echoing through wet depths of eternity.

Softly, his voice reaches out through the fade.
He beckons the faithless in cruel duality.
They abandon false idols of Gold and Jade.
They reach for his shimmering promised wonder
and he takes their outstretched hand...

As his tendrils drag the doomed souls under,
black eyes shed no tears for the filthy and ******.

"Such is His word." He whispers, in a voice old and rough like sand.
Softly, he shivers, and the waters ripple unmanned.
"Sinners..." He whispers,

"Won't you come take my hand?"

Te gustaria acostarte a mi lado, y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente.
Mi corazon es mi propio, pero...
puedo prestartelo por una noche, si lo deceas.

Quieres acostarte a mi lado?
Me gustaria mas de lo que puedas saber...
Puedo prestarte mis labios, y yo reciprocaria.
Nuestros latiodos sincronizados, y nuestras pieles relucientes.
Tu me bésarias apasionadamente,

Y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente...

I remember your face, so I'll write about your scars.
I remember your heart, so I'll scribble apart
broken lines about good times and our promises in the dark.
And I'll write about your scars.
The one that ran from your eye to your ear,
that I told you was beautiful, and I meant it.
The one that made it hard for you to see or hear,
how beautiful you were; That I really meant it.
I remember your eyes, both of them so deep and so brown.
You hated your eyes, and wished they were more light or more dark.
I remember your hair, on your head like a fiery red crown,
But I'll write about your scars, because that's what broke us apart.
And because, in the end, that's why I'm writing you down.

Rhyme night with light.
Rhyme love with dove.
Rhyme pain with razors,
and when that's not enough
mix in some words about heartbreak and the mock-laughing moon.
Catch some eyes, smoke some starlight.
Dream about raves full of lasers.
Drink till you're on the floor,
then shut the door.
And lie alone in your room.

Smoke.
Drink.
Live.
Die.
Wait for the pain
to make way for the high.

That's the path to the floor where I lie.
The train's in motion.
Its brakes are broken.
I guess that means I'll see you all soon.

Were every night as tonight feels now,
with you by my side, with your laughter echoing mine...
Were you captain of my ship, there'd be no need to hide
my face in the shadow of the masthead's lonely brow.
No need for cigarettes in the dark.
No concealing my haunted heart
behind smiles that tonight are honest as a vow.
Not false like in the light tomorrow will allow.

The morning brings tears that tonight are absent from my soul.
For at least tonight, there is no fear.
For at least tonight I feel whole,
and tomorrow I know will not feel the same.

And
       yet
             still...

Were every night as carefree and untired,
with dinner in the cabin, brothers sharing stories by the fire.
Waves lap at the barnacles; crest at the bow.
No need to hide my face from their spray in my shame;
No need for me to confess every sin by my name
Were every night as tonight feels now.
Were it that tomorrow would bring me the same.

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.

Last year I ****** it all up, and I injected our shared dreams with sickness,
but I promise if you stay for a minute, you'll realize now I'm different.
See, I'm like your new pair of jeans: No ripped seams or lingering stiffness.
New Jeans, New Year, New Me, I promise.
I'm baring my soul, bear with me and bear witness.
This year's resolution isn't life choices or fitness.
Last year, I ****** it all up. This year, I'm going to fix this.

Stay by my side for just a while longer;
say you'll offer me your forgiveness.
Give me a chance to earn back your trust... to be better... stronger.
Give us another try. That's all I want this Christmas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To describe her hair is to scratch markings in sand,
only to watch grains shift and fade like words that I lack.
Raven's too dark, Midnight not true to her soul.
I refuse to settle for simply black.

To put in words the tilt of her chin,
to lay claim to her eyes' swirling blues and greens
is impossible. Better again sand meet my pen
than her face be sullied by the barest degrees.

I'd tell you of diamonds and midnight to compare her beauty,
and then think better of her- less of my words- and take it all back.
I refuse to sully her by barest degrees;
I refuse to settle for simply black.

....              Growing up,
I                     thought I was the hero in our family. You never whipped out hate                 in the form of a belt; You never left a mark. But it didn't hurt your                case any less; It didn't hurt us any less. I offered my bruised
face                for you to vent your rage on; I took hard words and hard shoves
so...            the rest of them didn't have to. (You had too many kids by the way.)


"Go              for broke" doesn't apply when it comes to kids. With Mom
away"          you never had a chance, and I get that, but seven punching bags?
"Stop              at two in the next life, don't go for seven. You couldn't handle
it."                  You didn't deserve us, I don't care if you do now. Do
"You               even deserve us now? You've changed, you're stronger. You
are                 not the man you used to be, and I get that. But that man was fine
hurting          me whenever he didn't get his way, or work went bad. You left
me."                alone in the dark to rot into this hateful, bitter man I am today.

You                are a good father, now. You're raising the youngest with so much
care.              But I don't know if that's enough for me. God help me, but
I                     can't forgive you, even now. Even after all the effort I
know             you're putting in, because it's not for my sake. It's for his, and
that                isn't good enough. It's too little too late. I'd sign "I love you" but...

I just
don't
any more.

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 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...

When all moisture is gone from this world,
all that is left of our tears will be salt, sand, and sadness.
The universe greys, plasma decays, and oceans rust...
twinkling motes crumble into stardust,
mirroring the sand that's hurled from your eyes...
I mirror your reaction, for seeing you cry such stars
brings dust to mine...