you're a
soft one, but dense/
(packed full of thoughts)
and i mean that
in the best way possible.
i can see us floating away
in my favorite direction

I am

f  
     a
            l
                 l
                     i
                        n
                            g

and there is no one to catch me.

The first flowers awoke, then flung,
from golden faces to the buried sun,
whispered can you hear the sound of worn-out marching drums.

My site was darkened by the shaking ground,
I turned to look but there was no one around.
These things don’t happen with a warning cut in stone.

Stand still, I will,
My eyes will fight, for dreams to take flight,
Beyond the night and day,
Beyond the night and day.

When winter hums her tune, the heart of man
chooses not to listen even though he will regret
the way the water freezes over with his debt.

And we know these cities might change and fall,
but it’s nice to know that love could be so tall
and burst in the sky all at once.

Stand still, I will,
My eyes will fight, for dreams to take flight,
Beyond the night and day,
Beyond the night and day.

Beyond the night

i haven't been on much
because my grandfather just died,
and i have to go to church
tomorrow,
even though i'm jewish.

is there a difference between love
and lust? if you saw it would you
know it?

is there a difference between faith
and trust? if you saw it would you
snort it?

the poet in me is quiet now
no longer does he sing words
of love and whisper songs of
passion, no longer does the
drive to create pull at my feet
and walk me into the pit of
fresh reality, no longer does
the relief come when the word
emerges on the page, instead
there is only dissatisfaction and
sadness.

the poet in me must have left
no longer friends with the beat
of my heart, no longer in tune
with the secret channels my mind
broadcasts, no longer demanding
me to feel that which I refuse to
even acknowledge, no longer
there reminding me that I am
more than a body of flesh and
blood.

the poet in me is dead or gone
no longer putting up a fight with
the destructive order of my soul,
no longer bringing out the human
side of my heart, no longer engaging
all of my brain, no longer pushing me
to be more than I am expected to,
no longer making me sing and
talk and believe in myself, no
he is too good for that now.

the poet in me is quiet now
and all we have left is his pen
and our memory.

i just want the road to feel real again
i want to feel the cold of the snow and weep
i want to sob, hard
and reattach.