Writing to you again
You ignite my thoughts
My hand's still shaking
As I fold up the letter
Put it in a glass bottle
Sealing it sends another shudder
Down my fragile spine
No longer asking you
Because I'm certain you're mine

Should I bury it
Or send it out to sea?
Should I wait on it?
What will be, will be
After all these passing thoughts
Rush in and out of my head
I'm left with a smile
And echoes of words you've said
Maybe I'll just go to bed

When I wake up
I look out to the ocean
Over sand and under painted skies
I think you're my worst sin
Obsessed over the concept
Of us in a cozy hammock
Out of which we leapt
Went our separate ways
Yet my memories remain
Unshaken

If I keep my promise
If I carry your hope when you cannot hope
If I speak the gentle words of comfort when your lips are dry and parched,
If I make a quiet and sweet world for your escape when the world outside seems too cold
or too loud, or too wild
If I give you the sky and all the space of the prairies to dance, and run, and ride
Then, my dear, we will never fade,
or lose our luster.
If you want it, love, a life unimaginable.

For L.

We write the most beautiful things
and then, so abrupt is time, we end; pass on
after our deaths, we're dead and forgotten
unacknowledged, unmissed; just simply gone
every one of us lives this life with the need to be loved
each of us goes through life craving to feel as though we're needed
so we can write our lovely sentences
but it's worthless, for we can't escape our fate, and in the end we'll still die
the beings we were to become, no more than mere ashes in the wind
not worth even whispers to carry on our memories
so hurt thus fell these, our flowing words
our hearts consumed with bitterness; grey
years will continue to pass, none will visit our graves
our pages, our legacies shall sink; take solace with us in the ground
so we mourn now, thou still alive; oh how we sit, sit and cry
we don't really make sense
for why wouldn't we be loved by another when we for another can ourselves love?
perhaps unconscious self-contempt leaves us craving to feel neglect for our return
or perhaps we're just so terrified of being broken
we use our fears, rejections, anger and abandonments to write our most magnificent verses
why punish ourselves so, when time will still in the end overbear, and we'll all eventually perish?
oh, the merest of acknowledgments to such notions may as well rip our hearts from our chests
we may have fled truth, begging, pleading as we birth rivers of our blood, sweat and miserable tears
all alone then, without another soul in sight to wander with us while we roam deaths rocky beaches
So it's all of us who are broken, after all...

All I've ever wanted

is a hug and a kiss,

a shoulder to lean on

in times like this.

Funny how life is,

I can't stand to see myself now.



So if you wanna love me

just show me how,

because I didn't know then,

and I don't know now.

I'll just keep waiting,

for the right one

                   to come

                          around.



Sound,

      sweet sound,

             can you hear my words?

Fill her ear,

       with a sweet song,

              since all my words just hurt.



Caught in the moonlight,

                    that comforting touch

     yet again,

               again,

                   I've thought too much.

A telltale tome of the telephone ringing,

      spurred sad singing to a somber melody

Of solace,

         silence,

             and sadness.



Silence thickens into walls of solitude

'Round this tender heart I hold on tethers

Searching for a light in the darkness

A sun to be embraced by the empty depths of a damaged soul.

I like to believe
in partial reincarnation
that when people die
their essence is broken
into millions
of fragments
shards of spiritual glass
some with razor sharp edges
but these pieces
they need somewhere to go
so they find us
and we are made up of all
who came before us
always carrying pieces
so every new person
is more human
than the last
and maybe souls find like recipients
painters seeking out painters
and so forth
and I like to imagine
that a great writer
found my soul
but it seems far more likely
that it was the village idiots
who settled in my being

I've felt the walls of my reality creep in upon me, collapsing like the sand castles of my younger days
felt the very fabric of my essence be sewn together only to wash away
I've felt the sun's over saturated ultra violets waves
splash upon my freckled skin
I've knock on the closed door of opportunity, begging fate to let me in
but fate stayed out late, so I waited on destiny
to take the rest of me
crumpled upon a doormat, waiting on a monumental shift
that until that moment did not exist
fortune favors the bold, but satan favors the cold
desolate misguided eyes of a child waiting
I'm stubbornly patient
when the words dance on the tip of your tongue
I felt the blood rush to my legs as I beckoned them to run
run from the concept of what I had become
felt the walls creep in, taunting them to come...