Poetry is what keeps me up late at night

I breathe in all shades of purple
and exhale in all shades of blue;
faded plums to cornflower petals—
a bruised kind of exchange
that makes you look up to the sky
and feel something for no reason.
A contusion I keep fresh for
whenever I let someone
close enough to press it.
And if the pain makes my skin
sing notes only my conscience can hear,
then I’ll write lyrics to match;
they'll say
*I’m alive.
I’m alive.
I’m alive.

Sometimes
life seems like a series of repairs
A broken binding
a fractured wrist
a cracked heart.
My repair kit is always open.
From spare screws needed on touring days
where the sun beats down
a headache my eyes can't hide from
To ratchet straps teasing my hands into frustration
by their inablity to work right.
To the blind faith I hand away my love with
that usually leaves my lips smarting and my heart fractured
just a little bit more.
Repairs **** sometimes.
They **** even more then when things completely shatter.
When things break
there is peace in knowing you cannot do anything to fix it.
Broken bits fall to memory
new things, ideas, materials are assembled
and you are given a fresh start.
In contrast a recurring problem, a repair
is draining on the mind and soul, a constant ache on ones psyche.
A blackhole for my lightheartedness
A wormhole my happiness falls into.
Repairs **** sometimes.
And as I sit here
a ***** driver in one hand, a needle in the other and a airbag of frustration
expanding in my chest
I ponder the worth my projects of "improvement" hold.
How many times do I attempt to fix something that has already failed
countless times before?
When the straps slip no matter how many times I tighten them?
When my board bites my calfs no matter the stiched support I give it?
When my pulse trips despite the words spoken to end it..
Repairs **** sometimes.
And if I ever come across something I cannot fix
I will break it.
Just so I will never have to look at the problem again.

Charcoal grey lines of your lashes
Fill my vision as laughter expands like bubbles beneath my
Ribcage.
liquid happiness curls down the vains lining your arms as you pluck
my heart strings one by one with familiar palms
Familiar fingers covered in charcoal.
The dust of longing clinging to our frames
as we curl in eachothers warmth
hidden beneath the silky darkness of the distant sky
stars which laugh distantly at our foolish words.
words that fall as charcoal does
soft, light, all consuming in its subtly
coating the whispered phrases in a filmy darkness.
Even as our hearts beat and our breaths become one it is
somewhow perfectly dissonant in its innocence.
I am not innocent.
The draw you hold on my body is unshakable
unspeakable in its strength  and for years the faded pictures have wrinkled
have crumbled gently at the edges
soft strokes of light dust marring the surface
but it is still beautiful
you are still beautiful.
Black as charcoal
the love I feel for you
stains my heart.
And I have found years later
lovers later
I cannot let you go.