I once fell asleep,
to pleasantries of sound.
As the ribbon slides,
it painted color vibrance.
An emotional luminance, that made,
the soulless whole,
and the blind blissful.

Sleeping to strings,
felt like death.
Not the regretful kind.
It felt as if laying,
in the field,
staring at the bountiful sky,
as seasons pass eternity.

A melody of,
exuberating melancholy,
was infectious.
As if my body,
gave into sickness.
Now its still,
in joyous null.

Let breath subside,
slowing to a faint whisper.
Sink into a nothingness mind,
drain all to slumber.
And listen to Prélude.

We yearn for control.
Splashing and swimming,
in an ever-changing current.
It will decide when to crash,
when to pull us under,
or let you ride to stable shore.

Everything gets caught,
in this current, even time.
Reflecting yourself,
in glass-like calm.
Or in angry gray waves,
where you’ve lost your reflection,
yourself...

How often do we strive,
for calm waters?
How often do we predict,
the tides?
How often do we think,
of hurricanes?

Why not just go,
for the ride?

When I think of you,
I compare you to the sun.
Bright, beautiful and warm.

But, when you rise,
I want you to set.
Your bright rays,
overwhelming.
Your warmth violent,
it burns my heart.

Our gradient skies are no longer,
filled with our color.
Your wall of light,
pushed me to nights envy.
Now, I am with the scorned moon.

Waiting — sitting — dark eternity,
for a sun to rise again.
A sun that could share,
my sky.

You can control love,
as you type.
You can change the style,
which evokes feeling.
Script — curvy lines,
fitting for passion.
Sans Serif — Strong,
but friendly.
Grunge — Anger or,
vengeful.
Serif — Elegant,
and structured.
This four letter word —
is a shapeshifter.
Shifting styles, weights and
kerning on a whim.
You can control love,
highlight and change it.
Again.

But, love is fluid,
as fonts are to typographers,
as words are to poets.

I can not write.
My hands ****** in time.
I scream at pixels,
some dead in the corner.
I want to open up.  
Let it pour out as an ocean,
until overwhelming empty.
Composure must be kept,
as this is an art with structure.
The words must perform,
as dancers do before an audience.
As they read this,
it is only half of what is felt.
They can’t smell the rot,
that infects backstage.
The nagging screams,
that would make the world deaf.
Or be blinded by black,
during the bright of day.
I just want to be felt.
Release the tension,
of societies chains.
Or your chains perhaps.
They choke,
my voice,
inhibit my steps.
I want to just run.
Each send is a cry,
in a soundless megaphone.
Can I reach them?
Does this reach you?
I can’t write anymore.
Press send.
Scream.

You're gone.
I’m shattered.
Perfect little pieces,
of self broken.
Reflecting each side,
the hero that fought,
a poet that was adored,
the helpless romantic,
even the sadist.
All of me was for you.

Sweeping up whats left.
Assemble with glue and tape.
I am not perfect,
but I still love you.

Another being,
fresh with blood.
Pale with dark black circles.
Fills my sight,
every rebirth of gold.
It's even there,
during its death.
Its subtle whispers,
telling of truths.
Truths I know,
in heart and betrayal.
Pester and fester,
poke if you will.
Not even time,
grays your message.
“I know”,
with force I scream.
“I know”,
I sing.
Look away at the wall,
“breath”.
Open my eyes,
there you are…
In your vile prison,
reflecting flawed detail.
Who are you?
the being in there.