I remember the smell of summer rain
and how thunderstorms used to help me sleep when I was young.
I remember St. Patrick’s Day
and how the grass always seemed more green than any other day of the year.
I look at pictures of my family when I was eight
and it’s a harsh truth to admit
that I don’t remember much about my parents being together.

I remember having a sense of wonder in my childhood
that now I see was so precious and rare.
If we could all have that astonishment at the little things in life as adults
the world would be a much happier place.

Colors are no longer as vibrant.
I’ve started to look into the darkest corners of my mind
and the world to find new miracles and beautiful tragedies.

Christmas used to mean love, family and comfort.
Sleeping underneath the tree, the smell of pine needles would lull me.
Nowadays, gin is as close as I get from January to November.
With each sip, it’s the bitter taste of Christmases past
and the ripe, sweet smell of nostalgia.

People walk into my life through many doors and exit unexpectedly as well.
I’m in a forest, it all looks the same.
I turn at every tree with moss
Desperately searching for something new
and the hardest part is always searching
Never knowing which path leads to demise.

The friends that I keep are the ones I hold close
Are the good ones that stick through the depths of it all.
I remember the smell of my mother’s perfume
Yet the sound of her voice becomes more distant with each passing month and year.

Saturday morning cartoons used to be enough.
This wine is my blood and my blood has boiled out.

How to define pain and how to escape the wreckage?
I used to believe that time heals but the opposite has proven itself to be true.
The more details become unclear and fuzzy,
the sharper the knife becomes.
The more it hurts with passing days.  

I once heard that mourning is like being inside of a snow globe with flurries with slick, stealthy blades that sometimes float by and sometimes cut deep with no warning.
Time sharpens the daggers and that is a truth that is time(less).
Trust meant the world and gullibility was not a death sentence.
As we age, we find new ways to cope. We get by.

My dreams have been vivid and coated in a melancholy feeling
that I can’t break no matter how hard I try.
Woken up by the drunken calls of lush fools in the grass outside of my window,
I close my eyes and try to slip back into sleep.
Meeting failure, the clock taunts by the second
Synced with the laughter of the people outside, surrounded by friends.

Some say the glass is half full, some half empty.
I say the glass is being poured to the brim, on tap.
I take comfort in the solitude I used to curse in the early hours when slumber never came.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,

Behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;

A painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade

And now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.

Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

It's not because I don't love you,
because,
I do.
But you see
it always starts out the same.
I learn about you from a friend
when he tells me your name,
how much he loves you,
all the wondrous things you say
and that I need to get to know you;
today.
The next time I visit that friend,
you're there.
I try to play cool,
desperately trying to hide
how much I really care.
But inside I'm pulsing,
racing,
unable to think of anything
except when can I get you alone
and
when can I make you sing.
After all I've heard so much about you;
hated by those that don't matter
and loved by those that do.
So when it's time for me to leave
you come along without hesitancy
and
at home we get to know each other,
when your arch your spine for me
like you did for your last lover.
I hint at deep intentions
when I ask you to move in;
promising nights in each others arms,
my love and undivided attention.
“I have room for you in my life”
I'll say,
but despite this all
I still might give you away.
It's not that I won't miss you
when you're gone,
but,
the problem is I'm a traveler;
a vagabond.
I move on,
and on and on,
frequently meeting new faces
that hold a wonder for truth;
and they remind me of me
the me before you.
And so,
my darling,
it isn't that I don't love you,
I do.
But I've met someone new,
and this someone needs you.

I went to the Garden of Love.
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

Why are you crying? I haven't gone that far.
I'm the leaves blowing down the road, as you're driving in the car.
Why are you crying? It may feel bad. 
But feel the rays of the sun, and you won't feel so sad.
Why are you crying? I'm with you where ever you go.
You may not see me but I'm the sparkles on the snow.
So why are you crying, when I'm still here?
I might not be able to hold your hand now or wipe every tear.
But there's no need to worry, though were apart.
Why are you crying? I'm right there, always, inside your heart.

Bells of gray crystal
Break on each bough--
The swans' breath will mist all
The cold airs now.
Like tall pagodas
Two people go,
Trail their long codas
Of talk through the snow.
Lonely are these
And lonely and I ....
The clouds, gray Chinese geese
Sleek through the sky.