Man.
Always.
Entranced.
By that,
Horizon
Dawning, radiantly
In the dusk of the valleys,
In that place where only, kings and.
Vagabonds, go
In that secret place where,
you and I know,
That secret whisper that
Lush moonlit smile
That smitten meal
With hidden doves aflut
Good god there is none
Yet still, angel,
You
Are
One.

So where does that leave me,
I wonder, I ponder,
Lost and alone,
Across time, space, and a simple screen,
Across the fragility and powerlessness of the human heart,
The unwieldy empty reach of my dreams,
Those lost
Hidden valleys, oh,
Just the thought of the sight,
Just the temptation of that,
Empty horizon, on the tip of my tongue,
Those beautiful curves, twisted upon every single one
Of
My
Nerves.

Good god there is none,
But, maybe if there was,
It’d be someone and something like you,
Just a precious little thing,
Just something out of reach,
As Icarus reached out for the sun,
And I only your waxing moon,
Content now and again,
If I dare say it,
To reflect some of your own shine,
Upon those who would wear it,
Just over reach,
Just beyond heaven.
Therein.

I’m sorry that I’m the problem.
Oh let me tell you I’m sorry for being the way I am.
I’m sorry that I like you and I like her.
I’m so sorry that I want you in my arms..
I’m sorry that I can’t change.
I’m sorry that I create issues.
I’m sorry that I fight for what I say.
I’m just sorry that I disgust you.
And I’m sorry that other guys who do the same.
Get called better names.
I’m sorry instead of playing with a taken person, I stood my ground and walked away.
I apologize for like women, in the selfish, self serving, greedy way
That only I can.
I’m sorry for respecting, at every endeavor, to walk away.
Yet still yearning for them to turn, and off their hands.
I am sorry for being lonely, strange, weird, annoying.
I am sorry for being human.
I am sorry that your feelings matter more than mine,
I am sorry that who I am gets lost in the shuffle.
I’m sorry for arguing, for fighting, for not denying certain truths.
I’m incredibly sorry for this pain I feel, not even knowing you.
I’m sorry that you felt the need to isolate me.
I’m sorry that you don’t know me.
I’m sorry that I’m needy.
I’m sorry that I push too hard, as others don’t try at all, or try much harder.
I’m sorry that I don’t look that good.
I’m truly sorry for all my knicks, mis-intentions, and flaws.
I’m sorry for this stupid poem, for venting.
And, gosh, I’m just so sorry, that I’m nothing at all.

Except the jokes on you. I’m not sorry at all and neither are you. If you read this, you’ll blink nary an eye, all your suspicions will be true. What a creep. How uncomfortable is this feeling, in my seat.
Hypocrisy is a wheel, lookism an ideal, and people like me, the pieces that don’t fit.
Truly a sorry lot, all.

Patriotism, dead, dying a decrepit old region

Such violent imagery, juxtaposed, versus common refrain

Love of country, we cannot escape our past.

Patronizingly ignorant, embolden our greatness,

our ironic freedom, memorialized the blood shed for it,

the wrong blood.

They call it guilt, John.
That's what the voice in the dark of the night,
would always whisper upon me.
But I was deaf, so I would never hear it.

Oh, it's just what they'll all say,
"It's not your fault",
That your brother died,
That you're a broken husk of a man.

Worry not, worry not, fair snakeskin,
fair caterpillar,
surely you, too,
will shed your skin and fly, fly away.

But he doesn't get to fly now does he?
No all he exists is,
as a sad, cold face,
dead, under the refraction of light,
that pool's death gleams.

Hmm, but you enjoy this don't you,
John, the voice said to me.
The tragic backstory, the shameless reason.
For such gleeful ecstasy, surerly,
The small price of the lie called brother,
of innocence, of life,
of something you never really had, something you never really lose,
what an even sacrifice, John, what a fair toll,
in fact how favored are you, to so enjoy,
self-flagellation.

I won't tell if you won't, she says, whispered. Why always a she and who? It finishes anyways; whether I want it to...

Spencer died,
So I can have,
my whip in hand.
That is my truth.

The me that needed you back then,
did not get the you who needed me
not as I was but who I used to be or
perhaps a better version of what I am now.

So our misbegotten love ached and tore,
and you belittled me with an angels laugh,
and I cursed you, forever marking you,
in the decrepit depths
of my now stone dead heart.

They say that everyone has
'The One' out there for them.
But they never tell you what to do,
when you meet them wrong,
and they are long gone.
Long,
gone.

I heard it said once,
"All love is tragic,
it dies so very young."

On that throne you sit, zealous confidence yielding,
where on bent knee, I smile, basking in the madness flowing,
You came here, providence guided, gazing upon this neon kingdom,
You saw it as a dumpster full of trash, one you could build,
and mold into an empire becoming of your Lord.

But in the wool you keep over your eyes,
in that bountifulness energy, that ever effacing drive,
only built on the most beautiful of lies, that this is your purpose,
your place, your calling... ordained!
That you lose all objectivity, sir, and you fail to see,
that this dumpster is but burning, and you can grasp nothing,
and you can not change anything. For, if only you'd known,
that a dumpster of trash, that can, razing, burns ever long into,
the cold steep night. And that by huddling it's warmth you only have but two selfish choices. You can put it out, and sit in the cold and the dark, hated by those now without it's warmth. Though you may find yourself closer to God, like Adam, you will leave the rest of us in suffering and sin. A true hero. They'll sing your praises hence.

Or, you can let it burn. Let your kingdom set flame, crackling in the shadows of a lightly moonlit night. Telling stories and dreams, of where you're the protagonist, the king, to a captive audience that drools, and remembers naught. You'll smile and laugh, a reverie of life and death, the Knowledge that you have claimed, in your short life spewing forth. And then, alas, you'll awaken, and your kingdom will be nothing but ash. And it will slip through your fingers, like it has so many others. And it won't be your fault. No, just a test, just a task. God's will, and you his humble servant. The fire after all, when it burned, was so bright. And your God has always been a fan of such light. The sun will raise, alas, as you look on the dying embers of your morningstar. The irony won't reach you, Michael, until ages evermore.

So I left that dumpster burning. In your ignorance, you may still be molding and building. In your zealotry, you may not even know the scars you are molding unto your body, mind, and soul. Yet you are captured by the devil called cash. And you deem it holy. Surely you are not wrong. Surely, if only. Those who see you gasp, aweshook and flabbergast, truly this is the will of man, inspired! What belief in myself can bring, in wonder! I shake my head in bland aching numb. Temples pulsing, life wrung. I shan't speak anymore, as if I know how the story is really won. For it's so easy to see yours, but I can't write my own. At least you're an author and not a tool. Even if it is only for evil dressed so pretty, at least it's for something you at all. While to me, I get no barrel, no god, no fire so bright, so deceitful, just empty words, with less substance and meaning, than the inevitable ashes you'll deny as God's light, misleading.

A voice whispered out to me, years later, in a cold room, alone, as voices often do. "Whose story is it John?" Hmm. "If only I knew."