My *** drive would cause earthquakes,
but I can never find the time
to leave this place,
this bed-side lamp,
and away from poor attempts at rhyme.

Depression is a tired old topic.
But *** is forever at hand
to pin you down,
to win you round,
slinking off to the toilet in my dressing gown.

I know you feel a belonging
to the archives of music,
you drink in bed,
and sink on in,
to the restless call of another troubled head.

I will find restoration
held between your slender legs.
It is all we've got,
in this paradise lost,
in this sweaty reclaim,
to a feeling we'd forgot.

Going down is not an art,
but a way of keeping young.
How can you claim to love
what you won't dare to kiss?
How will you ever hear her siren song?

We are young, they say,
like the new stars forming,
like the ocean sounds adorning
sleep to the city dweller,
with his leathered face
but handsome pay.

He's exchanging the sirens
for a more rhythmic pace,
taking off his coat
and professional face,
to press you to the wall,
forgetting the Keats and the Byrons
that came before.

We are young, I'm sure,
despite having to crawl,
despite disappearing into
the city sprawl,
and returning half a person,
only memory intact,
and a stream of shutting doors.

You're giving up too soon.
Too soon a disciple of established fact,
too soon beguiled by
your own stage-lit act;
a smile worn, rather than felt,
a dress bought for him,
but never touched,

and for all of the hands
you may have dealt,
not a single one
has kept you young.

There are bare-breasted women
lounging in the unmade bed
of my mind.
They teach me chords on the piano,
and how to stay grateful
in the face of time;
how it lingers between seconds,
but years go by unannounced.

We don't make love. We ****,
taking back each wasted Sunday
spent talking to G-d,
or waiting for political truth.
They run their fingers over my back,
send me to a sleep
of dried sweat and loving violence.
They send me sunflower seeds and ****

in the post,
so I can bloom by the open window
and feel warmth through winter.
There are powerful women
laying down the law by the clock tower.
They stand up for Syria
and challenge the authority
I had conjured in my mind.

you are a planet
                              
                           ­       but i am a star


*(i am bigger than you, i will burn your eyes out, and i do not orbit around you)

I tried to explain colors to a person who could not see
But I found it was too hard for me.
Then a thought came into my mind
To put their feelings into color and rhyme.

The first question I asked is:
WHAT DO YOU FEEL ABOUT “LOVE”?
“I feel like I’m flying high above the sky”
Then I will call that GREEN
For high above the earth, that color is seen.
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT
WHEN YOU’RE FEELING “DOWN”?
It’s when I have no one to talk to and no one around.
Then I will call that BROWN.
WHAT ABOUT “SADNESS”?
That is when I lost something that cannot be replaced.
Then I will call that “GREY” for that
Is something which in your heart will stay.
WHAT ABOUT “LAUGHTER”?
That is when my stomach shakes like Jell-O.
Then I will call that emotion “YELLOW”
Then the final question I must ask
WHAT ABOUT GOD?
That is when I am lifted high above
All that I think and feel.
Since GOD is pure, I will call it white
Because he puts your heart and soul into flight.
“ we have enough colors for different emotions
Just like the raindrops that fall into the ocean.
Now the colors no longer have a barrier, because now
It has an emotional carrier.
Emotions and colors go hand in hand, just like the joining
In a wedding band.

My words are drying up, one by one by the storm inside
Your words, "I need something different"
"you'll find someone else" added to all the lies
Once promises I'd make a home in
Now I haven't seen the world sober in so long,
Why ask me how I'm doing when breaking up with me
Was losing the right to know whether I'm dead or alive.

I don't know how to not push you away. I don't know how to deal with these feelings I can't convey. They're locked up inside my heart, my head, my chest, my lungs, my fingertips. You're looking right at me but you fail to notice how my consciousness slips. With every passing breath, my lungs become harder to use. I'm not listening to your words, I'm just wondering why internal wounds are so much easier to bruise.  The pain is still horrendous to feel. But to the world, if the wounds aren't visible, they're not real. It's like I'm being torn from the inside out. But I can't find my voice to let the monster out. And no one seems to notice if you're breaking inside. Everyone looks the other way, even when your tears refuse to subside. I'm too tired to fight. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe they're right.
But God, I thought crazy was supposed to be bliss. No one warned me I'd wind up like this.