It's not that I wish to die,
More or less,
But if I were to go on a walk,
And find myself,
At the edge of a cliff,
I wouldn't stray the course.
And it's not that I'm depressed,
More or less,
But I've been using alcohol,
To make the silence,
Less deafening to be in.

"You have an obsession with time,"
He yelled it so clear.
I've been counting down,
The weeks,
The months,
The years.
"You have an obsession with time,"
It worried me sick.
I spent each day focusing,
The seconds,
The minutes,
The hours.
"You have an obsession with time,"
I felt it close in.
The ticking and tocking that screamed from within,
It pulled at my organs,
It banged on my skin.
"Of course I do, idiot."
But it never got through,
That I can't let go,
Of time's unruly control,
Our work,
Our sleep,
The amount on earth of which we're breathing.
And nevertheless,
It's constantly fleeting.

I wrote to find solace,
In the space while you were gone.
My mind formed words,
Sentences,
Paragraphs,
To replace the substance,
I was deprived of within your absence.
My tongue spoke none,
But a fragment or two,
To tell another I couldn't be bothered,
I was too busy writing for you.

Your skin,
Smelled of desire,
And I wanted nothing more,
Than,
To feel every inch of it,
Pressed against me.
I could see,
The goosebumps arise,
While you traced,
Circles,
Around my *******.
Your breath,
Hot on my skin,
As you trailed,
Down,
My exposed sternum.
A sultry sight,
I look into your eyes,
Before,
Your tongue finds,
The appex of my thighs.

I write when I'm in love,
Or when I'm sad,
But never when I'm happy.
Happiness is a dull emotion,
Passionless and bland,
Never screams anything spectacular.
But love and sadness,
Speak to the soul,
And resonate in hollow hearts.
Speak to desperate entities,
To people destined to feel something,
Anything.
Truly raw emotions,
Of which brings,
The strongest to drunks,
The weakest to ruins,
And the confused,
Unable to tell the difference.

Trying to find a place to cry.
How pathetic is that.

Not my house,
My family will ask.
Not my dorm,
My roommate will wonder.
Can't park in my car,
People will pull over.
(People are so ******* kind in that way).

So I'll drive.
And I'll cry.
Like a child
Who didn't get his way.
Which,
In a way,
Is fairly accurate.

But I need to cry somewhere.
The pressure is building up
In my head
In my heart
In the pit of my stomach.
Waiting there
To make its debut.

So I'll drive.
And I'll cry.
And I'll let it all out.
Because I want you
But he has you
And I didn't get my way.
And on second thought no,
Not like a child.  
A child is much more
Mature.

Because I won't apologize
For throwing a fit.
Because I still want you.
So I'll just drive for awhile.
And let it all out
On the road.
Throwing a fit
In my '91 Chevy.