Keep breaking my heart,
it'll only make my writing
better

I heard they found him hiding
behind claims of inner peace
and the sweaty palms of a
bare-breasted Parisian lover.
They found red stains on the
mattress. She could have been
a ******; young thoughts and sin,
though I know Leonard had
quite the taste for cheap red wine.
It would often resemble blood-lust.

They dragged him away through
the photographer's parade,
one million flashes mimicking
nature to capture the colour
leaving his handsome face.
In a faded suit and tie,
in a faded verse and rhyme,
he addressed the crowd to call
for freedom, to call for anything
more than a monthly wage.

I heard they found him lurking
in the digital archives of their crimes,
biding his time to become a hero,
to blow the whistle once he had
finally learned how to carry a tune.
He found innocent blood-shed
in the dust-cloud streets and money
distributed amongst greedy hands
like poker chips, passing weaponry
between countries like a blunt.

They dragged him away to
great public disgrace,
funding the next big blockbuster,
turning genius to mania,
and his lover into a victim.
In the lack of space or time,
in the lack of pouring wine,
Leonard learned to whistle
from by the window until
the inner peace returned,

until he understood the birds,
until the city came to burn.

When he calls me darling,
his hand is holding mine.
When he calls me darling,
my anger lasts a short amount of time.
When he calls me darling,
all my sadness slips away,

Except when I realize he won't be mine,
all of those things replay.

But when he calls me darling,
I desire for just his touch.
I desire for him to hold me,
he does not have to say much.
And when he calls me darling,
the world is suddenly alright.

But when he calls me darling,
I remember he isn't mine.

But it still means the whole world to me,
and he still means a whole lot.
because he was the first and only one to know me,
with all my weaknesses or not.
He recognized my strength,
but caressed me for my weakness,
He recognized my reality,
its fatality and its craziness.
He saw all the walls I had built up,
and had painted to show how I felt.
Except my side of the wall was real and the other side was not.
I showed the whole world what I was capable of,
What I was faking and breaking up.
He recognized me for my flaws,
and accepted me for all.
He recognized all my mistakes
and took me by the hand, and showed me this place.
This place he was never capable of living in,
but that he had shown to many.

He took me by the hand and said,
"Darlin' here I am. And here is this place,
you can live here if you want to,
but not within my embrace.
You must choose one or the other,
eventually but not now. I will stay
but only for a while,
until you sleep safely in the clouds."

I chose not long ago,
to give up and release them both.
But he took me by my hand,
and told me darling,
you must go home.
That place was meant to be
the one thing that kept you going.
I'm here only for the moment,
and to keep your memories floating.

So go back, he cried,
and be happy.
Because I cannot give that to you.
But I brought you here my darling,
Let your sorrows wash away and disappear.

When he calls me darling,
his hand is always in mine.
And when he calls me darling,
I am reminded of that time.

When the whole world had wanted him,
but only was he mine.

What if your pain relievers
Don't relieve my pain?
What if those true believers
Don't believe I'm sane?

What if the way they stereotype me
Isn't my stereotype at all?
What if just being me
Is what they see as my downfall?

What if the stories they tell you
Are never really the truth?
Would you stand up and confront them
Or let them bleed out you?

What if my suicide
Wasn't really suicide at all?
What if it was first degree ******
Premeditated; assumed.

What if your psychiatric meds
Don't "clarify" and "soothe".
What if they don't control me
And my will isn't under control?

What if America was free again
From drug scandals and abuse?
What if meds were actually prescribed
To people of dire use?
What if the living were given chance to live with mistakes instead of the dead?
What if we assumed the living
Were imperfect until death?

What if we did not assume
That my mood swings are chemical?
That maybe I, one too many times,
Had encountered something to cause them?