It is spring soon,
which means
;
Flowers will bloom
outside of my dreams.

The garden of
my heart
will overflow
once more, with beauty.

Come walk with me
And see!--
Each flower is
a new thought of you.

"fingerprint tracking technology"
articles are so foolish.
They can seek my fingerprints,
all they like
but it's my footprints
along the ashphalt by the shore-
it is those which will never fade.

They'll lead you to my place,
through my visceral dreams
and to the darkest places on earth.

And if you'll walk my path tonight,
you may also see the sea
looking black.
And if you've the right sorta soul,
At dark ocean waves
it'll wave back.

The sky yields no stars
but don't fret;
this was never to be a poem of beauty.
No, just of darkness,
and stars
that a midnight sky lacks.

I am less than honorable
My intent less than clean.
And the canker of my life?
Greater than you've ever seen!

Virtues; I have none.
Morals; I have none.
Light: I have one.
It's in the nightlight of her heart.

She follows me around
like a sweet haunting ghost.
Sometimes, i forget she is there
watching me, without thought.
I am a blank space to her;
For her.
A blank space to stare into.

I was her greatest gift, she once said.
I remember the way she said it,
All the words tender
and running together.
Yes; and with no voice. Only
the movement of lips
into silent sleeptalking mumbles
in my sleepwalking hours.

So my nightlight,
won't you come with me
and haunt me beside the shores once more?
My darling, remind me of how worthless I am
And let me rot in your arms.
(without fingerprints or footprints,
i could never touch your heart.)
Always, in her arms.

If someday your fascinating eyes grow playful
And you turn your assassins knife to my heart...
Held in frightening play,
Yet not to tear me apart.

If someday you wonder if my inners are pretty,
(Like you claim my outer frame to be.)
And you decide to peel back my skin,
And peer into the rest of me..
If someday you decide it could be fun to **** me?

I will not be sorry
I will not be sad
Instead? I will be happy of the times we've had.

I'll remember how long your words held me
And the shivers given by your touch.
The degrees of sharpness in your teeth
And yet how you weren't too rough.

I'll remember Winter days.
And how they passed in a daze.
I'll remember saying everything to you twice,
And you never seeming to mind.

I'll recall the promises you made
And the sanity we resisted so well.
I'll dream of every second spent with you,
And being caught under your spell.

You'll seriously hold the blade
And speak quiet words to me.
And I'll think it rather charming,
Such particularity.

You'll grin as you trace it along
that grin I love to see.
You'll tell me it's a joke,
As if you'd ever dispose of me!

And lost in my memories,
I'll forget to be terrified.
I will look into your eyes,
and then I shall smile.

You'd allow the knife to fall
and you'd remain all mine.

A dreary morning ensemble
Of broken instruments.
Curtains spread, so do my eyes,
To the light that ensues.

Glinting light off the tangled marionette
And The already sprung jack in the box.
The room illuminated slowly;
I conduct a silent orchestra, to my twisted audience.

The cymbals crash not
The lute strings yield no twang.
As for the birds outside
Has that chorus ever sang?
The accordion doesn't breathe,
So I stop as well.
Before long I must leave,
I bow to the audience; farewell.

I leave the doormat at the front door,
And the musicians I don't own.
Down the stairs
Past the mailbox
I leave my home.

In my walks I dream of you
Sharing my path.

I think of the curves of your neck,
The creases of your eyes,
And hands.
The weight of you,
As I lay face down,
And You rest on my back.
The silence between us at times,
That I don't ever seem to mind.
But just incase, you reach for my hand,
Just incase silence feels unkind.
I think of your laugh,
At my awkward jokes.
Mostly;
I think of your smile.

I reach the school
Still lost with you.

"Hey" they all say.
And conversation flows.
I listen, comment, even join in,
Of my dreams,they do not know.
The pensive mood of my journey lingers,
A fifteen minute walk feels years ago.

I think of the instruments left alone,
The time I once spent with them
(Not so long ago.)

I laugh at a joke,
Oh he's a funny friend!
And then someone speaks your name.

The light passes over my face
Like open curtains,
Across the drums.

If you could place your hand on my heartbeat today,
You may comment on how it races.
The blood it pumps
(Thumpity Thump)
Is taken to many places.

Let's start at my head, at my brain,
It allows me to think of you.
The thoughts I find
(Always so kind)
Remind me you are true.

The blood trails down my arms, a river inside,
That would wrap around your waist.
The flow is always on,
(Splashing along)
Travelling with such haste.

Now to my fingertips, it carries on,
And they would caress your cheek.
The warmth of your face,
(A favourite place)
Is something that I seek.

So believe me as I speak the truth,
My heart beats for you.

Ah my lamplighter-
I do my best to escape this place
And imagine
You, here,
Or I, with you.
I pull down the sleeves of your jacket
Covering my hands
That I may raise them to my face and breathe in your scent.
It envelops me,
And all at once;

I can imagine kissing your cheek
Your hands
Your lips
And then I'm counting you like spaces on a board game.

I like it there.
Before long someone speaks my name,
Following with concern.
"Are you okay?"
I quietly say that I am well.
(And quietly don't say
That I am missing your dreamed up arms already.)

Cuddled into your jacket,
I study the lights above
So harsh.
So cold.
My lamplighter would never allow such a thing
If he knew.

But never mind that.
I sit here, Phantom as can be
And I stop existing again-
It's the best way to miss you.

So the clever artist manages to push all her friends away,
And the clever artist decides to distract herself from her plight.
The clever artist goes outside to paint
In the rain.
In the middle of the night.
The clever artist crafts damaged brushstrokes.
And the very clever artist watches them wash away.

The clever artist sends herself mostly blind
As she watches her foggy breath over a flashlight.
The clever artist thinks about the silence that blares,
Despite the music coming from everywhere.
And oh the clever artist!--
Dropped her brush in the dirt.
But she still managed to disguise her hurt..
The artist cleverly insulted the paintbrush in hand;
Clever words, metaphorically meant.

It was then the clever artist ran inside
Her hair dripping from the rain, tangled and wild.
The stupid artist sits down before a page,
Taking her favourite seat.
And writes the worst excuse of a poem ever made.
Becoming the least worthy poet you'll ever meet
The stupid artist can't write,
Nor paint for ****.
And of her friendship skills?
Well, **** it.