You are only words
On a page.
Many if honest.
Written in my hand
By me.
Yet much more than you.
Than you'll ever be.
Or ever have.
These, words on pages
They are heavy.
Such weight, foolishly waiting.
All I have ever had
To feel that I had known you.
I wrote. I read.
Only words on pages.
Used to affirm my misery
And to believe
As proof, reason for my wants
parts buried inside
those that doubted
anyone that was there
if I ever really knew you.
so many words,
you
only pages
Tear them to confetti.
Maybe...
One day.

The song bird heralds
The start of another day
This melody falls so gentle
To a man trying not to wake
He wants desperately to hold
The only love he knows
And she only visits in his dreams
That melody is the saddest song
That comes with the first rays
Another lonely day of wanting only to be asleep.

Tangerine-tinged recollections
upon a soft field of purposeful blue
Perceptively gentle this hue
seems to bleed to somewhere
This canvas keeps from view
Beyond the edges lay uncertainty
Masterful direction ques or glance
To the nearly too contrasted
Aligned shapes that represent
Every sensation blending into feeling
Too personal, we look upon what
Inwardly lay hidden, as if off edges
The attachments best expresses in colors
It makes us pause, want, recall what was
Fall, take in breath, shed a tear or confessed appreciation of our own inability to be true.

Reds melt and seep, against my the monochromatic, reality.
Whites force back the muted tones if unwashed brushes
Every shade, shape and conceptualized
Intentention t go at only artists can pull from those that pass by such

List my point and considering this a rough work in progress.

I write lines that feeling does control
Time then passing my eyes fall upon
To find the words tied tightly
To emotions held inside down deep
The lines leveraging the need in me
To the attempts at closure in writing
More time between finds no more no less
Have the lines and the words forgotten
Each is as yet equally as commanding
These emotional attempts remain in control