The more I know,
the more I am convinced.
That every source of light,
casts also, a shadow.

My world is not of the written word
It cannot be numbered
held captive on a so called page

My world is liquid
as sea , rain , snow or ice
It can be hot , cold , or entice

My world is cloudy
It thunders after it flashes light
My world is wrong , my world is right

There are no words that bind my life
I won't be delegated
to exist in the black on white

I will not be staved
by the limited sways
of the written words upon the page

I miss the feeling of pure happiness I got when I was able to run around in the rain and not get in trouble for dirtying my clothes.

I miss staying outside on warm summer nights with my brothers catching fireflies until we were forced inside.

I miss jamming out to "heart and soul" on the piano with my dad, thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.

I miss my grandma telling me not to roll down the hill with no shirt on because I would be itchy. (But I did of course anyway. Several times.)

I miss waiting for the heaviest snowfall, and going outside for hours to build a snowfort. (Even though we got cold and kicked it down anyway.)

I miss being carefree. Only worrying about what mom was cooking for dinner.

Most of all, I miss how much more the little things meant to me.

I long for those feelings again.

You're a one night stand
But we spent too many nights
I lost count of it.

You're that unexpected kiss
On a drunken wasted night
Of vomits and *****.

You're that awkward hi
Exchanged by strangers who
Thought they both knew each other
But were clearly mistaken for another.

You're the bruise that turns blue
When I accidentally bump my leg
On the corner of the bed.

You're the scar that I never
Knew I had.

You're the bittersweet taste in
My mouth every morning.

You're the last thought lingering
In my head before slumber takes me
And you're the vagueness that
Haunts me in my dreams.

You're the scalding hot shower
In a cold freezing morning.

You're the boiling tea that numbs
My tongue for the rest of the day.

You're the obsession
I will never learn to let go of.

You're that person I will
Never get to call mine.

You're the one that got away.

In an age of emptiness
in the ways of nonsense
the meaning of life
has become meaningless

If we stand
do we each alone ?
Single thoughts under
single days and nights

"The fertile fallow furrow
fleeting under flurries of
freshly fallen snow "

. . . . . . for sure . . . . . . .

And we are the huskless stalks
shivering in the wind
row upon row
thousands upon thousands
going no where
and no where to go

Someone far off , I can't see ,
lives in a graveyard
in hopes of reviving
dead dreams .

I was sitting in my white room
Sitting on top of the world
Where there are no cares to implore
Never worried about if there was more
Touching monsters that are made to laugh
Tasting colors , smelling every sound
Bite the dog of realities hound
All this in a way , without any
Hell has come to claim it's fair game
In the deserted cemeteries of the heart

I write my troubled soul's journey
with hopes to feel better