the small grey moth
hovering near my candle
thinks to himself
why was i not born a butterfly

High and *****
Don't ask for much
High and *****
Is what it is
High and *****
Likes to complain
High and *****
Gets way too excited
High and *****
Writes and beats
High and *****
Is more often than not
Sad and lonely

He's in too deep.
He can't seem to think.
Just how low
do you think he will he sink?
Caught in the undertow
of the current flow.
He treads
Slow
It can make or break what you knew
if you ride the rapids threw.
Will they take Scuba Steve too!?
He wont swim for the shore.
to avoid once more
the beauty in store
Only to find...
That he always wants more.
he learned from the past
but his oxygen can't last
and his air
Is depleting fast
high in the speed
and the passing sea ****
I heard Scuba Steve plead
I'm in too deep
and I can't seem to think
Just how low
Do you think
I will sink?

I take a walk into the parkour graveyard,
looking for Polish dealers and cellphone halos.
I heard Thoth resides in sobriety,
but words fail me
whenever you are near.

I let my tongue run in endless stutters,
disguising 'I love you' as some off-hand request.
I could take you to dinner,
I could show you a longing
without the need for ***.

This late-night food has lost its flavour.
This ******* never picked up.
All that is left is to dial these numbers,
and wait by the window
for any car but yours.

Let's take a walk to the railway bridge.
We'll smoke a joint by the open forest.
You'll push your breath into mine,
make me high,
and forget why I ever
felt so low.

I gave my innocence to a boy who told me he loved me after only two dates.
The boy I loved at 13 still sends chills down my spine and although I'll always love him, I'm no longer in love with him.
I spent a year in love with a boy who used to call me every night and then I was left haunted by his echo and the dead silence of the phone.
I dated a boy who took me up a mountain to feel alive but secretly wished he could swallow a bottle of pills.
As you can see I was quite used to the idea of handsome strangers loving the idea of my poetically charming words and sincere sense of loving.  I was used to being compared to paintings and angels. I was used to being courted and cuddled, and also used to being told I was shallow and shrill.
I was used to not being good enough or way too demanding.
Although I know now I am nothing but the most beautiful parts of a poem.
The pauses at the ends of sweet words, and the carefully crafted  run on's you dare not speak. I am the beautiful beginning and the tragic story never told. I am the girl with the Mona Lisa smile and the heart of doves.
I've been told a mosaic of beauty is something only a statue can possess. I've read that love is not to be whispered and pain is not beautiful.
I've spent countless years trying to discover the constellations for the right kind of love affair.
I've whispered secrets to strangers I don't want repeated. I've loved boys with brass hearts and devilish desires. I've walked through my own museum of love and made notes along the way. I've shared stories of every beautifully brilliant boy I have ever crossed paths with, I just hope that someday they learn to appreciate what it's like to walk through a museum of harsh truths, pitiful pain, and I hope they look back and remember me for all the good things I was, and the way they're eyes used to light up when they'd look at me, god I miss that look. I hope they remember the storms and the sunshine, and the new beginnings of my fall, I hope they remember the Christmas lights when the planets are aligned at exactly midnight and wished they had loved me more

(v.m)

Here I am again
trying to keep from sinking
but I am the dead weight
recollection of heavy bones

I try to pull it
out of me the black rays
feeding inside me
caged and reeling
a wounded raven

I dream of somewhere
beyond my reach
then I let the core flutter

in the arms of a stranger, it's so long to 'how long,'
the ending-writ being composed in the arms of a stranger,
the surprise, the uncomplicated simplicity of a "yes, why not"

the normalcy of the out of the ordinary has a finery that's
abnormally kind in a peculiar way & a comfortable shiny finish of  a cry and a 'whew,' a laugh, a pause, a kiss on the nose,
that's familiar from a who knows me, who knows where, a silence,
a kindness to pass the collection plate of stored memory genes now
kickstarted hot and then a transition to the here and now of

hysterically funny bad jokes, a beer and a wine, and a Samuel Barber adagio that seals some of the open wounds and one can't stop thinking, thank god for the little things, the big ones never get resolved anyway, so the arms of a stranger, the long neck, tan shoulders, the eyes culling a list of unasked questions, looking for the crease in the pauses and an entry point to the decision of crossing the river of no return from the security of being strangers, whose bodies sang a two part harmony coming to a closing, last call from the barkeep lady tossing you your pants with an
awshit and the widest Mississippi River grin you've ever seen

and she asks do you like steak and laughs when the response is "with extra sizzle and Heinz ketchup" and the answer means the other questions will keep, at least for now and until

the violin weeping of a chest breathing hard but slow on the device
has played thrice, and the arms of easy are now fraught with the scent of risk, when the next the line is crossed with a followup of
"fries or baked potato?"
and it's too late, the memory machine has started recording and what is truly strange is that you can't recall what the day of the week tomorrow will be and if you have any plans that must be kept and that doesn't seem to be of any concern of anybody in the immediate vicinity of the her who's unconsciously humming the wholly appropriate, interesting choice, best love song, that  Dolly Parton ever wrote^