buckle your seat belt
and I'll drive you home
alone
down these safe and winding roads
let the wind from fallen windows
cast aside your fears
As we press down peddles
While slowly swiftly shifting gears
Bodies bumping together
heaves in the road
I'm your Designated driver
so you don't feel so alone
While driving home
drunk
down these safe and winding roads.

Remember the visions
the ones without clouds breaking
Echoing thankfulness for uninvited shimmers
to the surrendering sun.

THIS is where Thoreau sat
after he awoke from a night of dreaming,
His smart phone screaming in his ear-
WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
He sat right here after putting on his neoprene boots,
Poring his hot cup of coffee and allowing the dog to do its duty.
He sat right here after listening to the news,
gathering bits of worry and panic-
Thank God he didn't like to work
Or he might be late in traffic.
He sat right here
reading on his half charged nook
hoping that the batteries didn't run out
before he had a chance to get to the good part,
Realizing the irony of electronic books is that even they,
Are putting you on a time limit.
This very spot is where he stood,
Wearing his tee shirt with a large moustache printed across the front,
Replaying songs from his iPOD
"Call me maybe..."
I'm sure the beauty of Walden captured him,
so in effort to share he'd snap pictures for Instagram and hope that enough people "liked" it to send his photo viral, like the howl of the midnight owl who hangs out in his yard.
This is where he sat
after taking his ****** and securing his door from his neighbor
This is where he sat
when he returned home
from a job he didn't even want
This is where he sat
soaking up the heat flashes and solar flares
Watching comets pass by like a common sight
I'm sure that this,
Is where he'd sit-
And this,
Would be his reason to go to the woods.

The surreal pattern
of a lovesick design
That's laid with false pretending
while withering on hope
of imaginary breath
that beats off the chest
of already broken hearts.
It's a storm gathering love
in a passionate collapse.
Relished with poisoned promises
that hold onto jealous escapes
in attempt to bind wandering hearts
while trying to escape.

Empty whispers
ascending destiny
leave a radient glow
on the reality
of descending lovers.

She's more beautiful
then critics give her credit for-

She bends at the spine,
pushing forward,
building tension
with those who observe her.

Her heart,
empty pages-
empty space,
room for words still unwritten-
yet seemingly full in the right place,
The beginning.

Her skin
folds beautifully
around the verses of her body,
Leaving you wanting more.

You'll be captivated by words
while falling forward
in hopes of a ******
that will help to create the perfect end.

She's a book,
well written,
Even Heming
would have his way
between the crevice of her words.

She's a book,
gentle to hold
while holding it together,

She's a book,
A novel,
A number one best seller-
Hanging onto every adjective you give her.

Hold her,
Read her,
Love her,
And don't you dare
put her down till you're finished.

Snow covered rooftops
rise to meet the sky this morning-
with the same grace that they always do,
But this morning,
There is no difference-
No difference of where the rooftop ends
and the sky begins,
This morning,
they are same muted shade of white...
This morning,
Those rooftops are washing out my dreams
sending them into the night.