Lost in the single thing that complicates more than I could know.
Confused as the silent zephyr blows my emotions to and fro,
but my steady gaze cannot be averted even by the beauty of the skies
because I've found something more beautiful in the depths of your eyes.
This hoping, longing, burning for something more than the mundane
has now been quenched to the point that I can't find reason to complain,
and the smiles that were once so hollow are now filled with bliss.
Never could I ever wish for something more than this peacefulness that persists.
With only a glance and a smile you have driven all the doubt from my brain,
and if I could forget everything else, then only this moment would remain.
Even though I can't vocally explain how I feel inside without it coming through
I know that it doesn't bother me when I"m standing here with you.
You've caused me to feel some things that I've been fighting for so long
and no matter how hard I fight them it seems that the feelings are just as strong.
So as I give in and fall collapsed at the mercy of the world and its harms,
I relax when I realize I'm being held up by the support of your arms.
As the dark night continues I find this simple notion to be true,
That as much as you are holding me up, you're relying on me too.
The idea that seems so simple stands like stone in the blowing wind
and that thought lingers on my mind until time forces the embrace to end.
So as I drift into the darkness of midnight's fast enveloping shroud
I know that to feel all of these feelings is more than should be allowed,
but the single greatest battle that I doubt I shall ever win
is to leave this place without wishing that I were in your arms again.

I like to wander to places
Places full of letters,
Places full of words,
Places full of stories.

My eyes are burning with passion,
Letters swim across, in front of me.
They pull me in, never letting go.
I'm trapped in a story I cannot fathom.

I am a part of a story.
A story filled with emotions,
Lessons, reasons, and seasons.
Yet, I am only on chapter fifteen.

I am a character of a story.
A character who has problems,
But caring, appreciating, and understanding.
I'm still trying to find a place in this world.

My life is a plot.
I will never know what would happen tomorrow.
The tranquility of time scares me.
I don't want to be afraid anymore.

Our story is unpredictable.
We are in a book of life.
A dictum of peace.
A tiny spark of hope.

Don't close your part of the book yet.
Something good is still happening.
Never ever regret.
This isn't the end.

So the keyboard in morose haze is a maze for the poet, blurred mind, slurred lines
How impossible to focus on screen and desk, simultaneously and keeping uniform
He doesn't look anywhere but within himself, the core reliance on life and poetry
A system of chemicals that writhe within him, every second an ordeal and euphoric
How he licks his lips, as they dry so fast, and the throat he clears is rough, how ironic
Since drinking a five ounce bottle of cough suppressant and smoking three joints down
His fingers are numb and act as spoiled children, incapable of civility on worn keyboards
On multitasking he fails, the new joint lays dead 'neath his once deft hands, wringing
Stench of smokey tobacco and ash from the splitting of old cigarettes for rolling tobacco
and roaches, sticky with resin, dripping on cheap wood desktops and staining pajamas
His hands no longer work, as the spirits have taken hold and disassociation is supreme
There's a cam model in the tab by the one he writes, frittering between the two
Inspiration for the loneliest of souls on wistful whistling autumnal nights, and the winds are howling
Everything around him is cold to the touch, the window's been open for hours now
and here is linguistic death upon your eyes and in such beautiful formats
Did Burroughs burrow too with the door-mouse on the first days of fall, when the world did end
and love left for the south and the curtains of Britain were drawn with pretty girls on postcards
This language is too morbid for him, and the land's aghast when tires screech in the night
The itching begins about now, with a furrow of the poets brow, liberation grows sour
The name Alice reminds him of her and the itching remains but a new itch needs scratching
Tired and free, discordant and discarded with the rest when all are in bed and I can attest
Do not re-read for he is ill of nationality and the land falls away each night beside the doorstep
He no longer watches screens or sees in colour, no time is passing but he grows older
Shaking when the westward winds howl in city streets and foxes rummage in overturned bins
It's cold but not too cold; cold enough to need a blanket but not too cold as to need two
He's an ambling rambler when he gambles with the shambles
But when the mind is beaten by the by he sighs and says goodbyes

The wooded lands are a beacon tonight
and life is on the horizon

We both know it's over,
Though we haven't spoken a word.

And I hear your sleeve rustle
As you run your fingers through your golden hair,
Nervously. Impatiently.
You don't want to be here.

Our eyes meet;
They match the coffee sitting on my bedside from this morning.
Cold.
Bitter.
Unfinished.

My hands rest in my lap, clasped together;
As if to pray to some obscure divinity
That can't hear me.
Gaze fixed on chipped, red nails,
Trying not to bite my tongue.

You knew it was wrong;
You knew it would come to this.
You knew all along.

Didn't you?

Jaw clenched,
You stare out a window,
Plotting your escape.

I try to remember the good times,
But they all seem so out of context now.
Your smile seems so crooked now,
Your eyes seem cold and distant now.

Your charm,
But free deceit disguised as cheap love,
A poor alibi for worse decisions.

You don't love,
You lust.

Because that's all you've ever known in this world,
That's all you ever learned from your sick father figures:
I want.
I need.
I have.

Human connection,
A waste of time.
Love and affection,
No worth to speak of.

So, tell me.
Was she worth it?

"I love her," You say quietly.

"I know," I reply.

Love,
stop filling the backs of
my eyes with your pressures
rubbing tiny orbs with
backlit diamond roughings,
your face is the roof of
an opened shrine.
      cut me with your writ
      slide the s through every word
      until the tips of your arms
      are dragging the grounds with
      a weight of water-colored birds.

I wished you a thorough
processing into particle,
small and simple to dismiss,
if only to save the last
dusting breath that kept us both
unshaken.

The fact that I am inferior
Is etched into my brain
A weakling in this world,
Just a speck of dust on the windowpane

The other girls beauty
Radiates farther
And the intensity of their
Bleached white teeth
Outshine my metal mouth

It's like the how the colors
of fall leaves
Attract many
But no one enjoys
The simple green chlorophyll
Inside their spring and summer veins.