Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…

In seeing,
as a child,
breathing blinded.

As we fail to remember,
what we want,
and need at that moment.

We are greedy as ants,
following the path,
striving for the same leaf.

We are small,
humbled by blue sky,
and the night stars.

Only then we remember,
who we really are.

There is a truth,
in our story.

Treasure in your confused,
curly hair.
Honesty in rain,
that falls on your face.
Finding perfection,
in your sky blue eyes.
The veracity of your voice,
expressed in silence.
Faithfulness of your soft skin,
that quenches my thirst.
Genuine movement,
of you is smooth and knowing.

It is a fact,
a complicated dogma,
that in this doctrine,
we are whole.

In this conviction,
that no rocks could dent.

We are making something,
we both need.

You never were here.

After you cut the cake,
was our fate sealed?

Did it hurt when you,
realized…

What was your thought,
one second before?

Did you ever really,
laugh?

Why did it take,
so long?

How did you look,
at him?

Who are you?

Who am I?

We left it empty…

It's gone.

Our dream.

If I gave you my soul,
would you read each page?
Scribble notes of interest
and know me.
Would you take the time,
to help tape the seams?
Would you mend,
the fragility of my soul?
It tears and rips,
easily, emotionally.

I’m sodden newspaper,
heavy with time.
Mucky layers,
that pull apart in chunks.
Masking detail,
of stories of my soul:
Hymns of love,
transcribed in invisible ink.
Mastheads that yell,
like father did.
Fables of summer in the wood,
when I was a boy.
These are my columns,
my life.

I was drunk once.
Drunk on love,
drunk on lust.

I was drunk,
warm and full.

You were sober,
cold and empty.