It's an endless sea of obstacles
between you
and me.

Hurdle after hurdle of paranoia
guilt, doubt
block me.

Excuses pile up like driftwood
on the shore,
mocking me.

I'm doing all I can but I just don't
know how to
get to you.

I am loveblind, my life, to you.
Swerving into a one-track mind
stymied by broken hearts askew,
I am loveblind.

Our fortunes become intertwined.
We’re gravity, magnets. We’re two,
but our souls thrive as one aligned.

It’s impossible to subdue;
my fixation can’t be confined.
This addiction, I can’t construe,
I am loveblind.

Every cloud with a
silver lining still holds a
storm within its core.

Stars watch us from behind their clouds
as we dwell on our numbered days.
Time screams like a rock concert crowd,
bursts through our cozy summer haze.

So we laugh louder than the night,
we drown out roars of tomorrow,
and we fly with the fireflies
who stand guard, shield us from sorrow.

We become the night, forget dawn,
as our laughter and guard soar on.

The thundercloud parking garage swallows me whole
and drains the authenticity from my smile.
The descending escalator sends me to my personal hell.
All I can think of is my counterfeit countenance
or the carefree singing voice of my mother.
I grasp at the sound, the long lost curl of her hair,
the sun of her eyes.  It's like trying to catch smoke.
The tears before security tell me I'm not alone
though the final embrace of my mom disagrees.
She disappears, fades into the metal detectors.
I'm alone.
I float through the crowd, past half-machine men,
their brows furrowed in stone as they slice through lines
without one last look at the family they wish they had.
They race to winged robots that autograph the sky
like the parting at the end of a letter.  The goodbye.
The stain mochas of Starbucks beckon me.
The neon magazines cheer at me from Hudson News.
Together, we watch the clouds gobble the planes,
mourn the farewell of the familiar, the leaving of love.
Rain pummels the windows like tears down a face.
Again, the machine men, the magazines and mochas
comfort and reassure everything will be alright.

Zombifying minds of many,
dooming them to a life rooted
in the ground. The didactic lay
forgotten, decaying in a
graveyard of tattered pages, old
typewriters, and eight-track tapes.

Monotonous drama deludes
these robots into surviving
in a reality teeming
with **** and drugs, ****** and lies.
Optimism overshadowed,
out-shined forever by filth.

But even I still succumb to
this regime, an addict to his
fixation. Plug in, power on,
and wait to retrieve the signal,
for my brain to be white noise while
potatoes grow on couches.

Dull, torrent gray engulfed her, all light was smothered.
She danced over the rocks that were covered in tip-toeing sand,
leaping from one weathered log to the charred ashes of another.
Aware that the weather held no mercy for her, she took her hands
and gathered her coat, clenching the fabric around her.
The rampaging wind ricocheted off of her exposed face and
the ivory deepened one more hue as she trudged closer to the water.
Into the open, the crashing battlefield of sea and land,
where the tide always leaves victorious and the sand endures slaughter.
Each wave ripped through her mind as the sky became more bland,
then, the clanging ceased as the sun burst through the clouds asunder.
“Well,” she whispered, “I’ll be ******.”