I know its eavesdropping to look
through the keyhole on two people
in love when one's a stranger and
the other lives in your heart. But love's
such a fickle thing and games like that
are far too complicated to play.

You see, it's just one thing when
they are talking while rearranging
furniture and something entirely
different when they are kissing by
the fire. Look again though, tell me
tomorrow and wish me luck when
I whisper through tears that I still dream
of yesterday.

I miss the way things were then.

Don't sing our song to her between
flickering flames and wondering hands,
don't give her my hot tea or read her
those hand me down poems you wrote
for me first. Even remembering all those
slamming doors and random fights over
nothing at all don't make me want
anything better or different.

I know it's eavesdropping to look
through the keyhole in most
situations, but is that still the case
when you're just a doll on a shelf
bought for a girl you no longer know?

The walls missed you so much that they
started talking last night. You left such
beautiful words behind that they are
almost enough to make me forget
you ever even left at all.

The shadows started asking where
you are and silence echoed back
as one of those half baked answers
when no one's sure if its better to lie
or tell the truth for the other's sake.

The radio voice makes me sick
and the songs he announces are
too much to take now, because he still
loves all of our favorite songs more than
we ever could. You really do leave an
impression everywhere you go,

and it's good I'm getting ready to
leave these memories and haunted
halls because this place will never be
the same again.

There's mascara running down the folds of my faded pillow
and it's not that anything is even that wrong. Please,
don't think that I'm one of those attention seeker types,
because that's not it at all - I swear. Or is this one of those
moments where "thou doth protest too much" makes perfect sense?

I remember nibbling on your shoulder, starving for your attention
and now I wonder if you've ever needed anything from me
with enough fervor and ferocity to actually beg for it (me). I wonder
if the single drops that quenched my parched lips so effortlessly
when you weren't around have ever been enough for you.

And I know it's sad to say this since I fought you every time you tried
but I miss the potential of having a light something to eat or drink
while indulging in a conversation more hearty than I could ever be.
The fact that there are no guests knocking on the door at three
in the afternoon or even at three o' five breaks my heart.

So here I am, alone, waiting for the violet kettle to whistle
with a tray full of cobalt speckled blueberry scones and airy white,
sweet cream to balance out the **** of fruit picked too early -
or maybe it's only there to subdue the pain of opinions varied from your own.
Either way, it is enticing and I wish it could do its job more properly.

Slowly, I'll stir the milk and two sugars into the dark mixture
watching the shapes play leap frog in awkward motion,
humming along with the delicate, lacey clink of the metal spoon
chiming against the porcelain cup. It's just not the same
now that I know that not everyone has to make do with

breadcrumbs.

Thank you for waltzing through my heart
while you could, I mean really,
thank you
for taking time out of your incredibly
busy schedule for me (no sarcasm,
I mean it in all honesty.) Thank you for
showing me what the definition of art really is
and the person I really want to be -

someone so much better than I was two years ago
when we met. Thank you for leaving without
saying goodbye and for teaching me what glass
feels like when it hits the wall, shatters, and
falls to the ground glistening beautifully like
new fallen snow in all it's painful perfection.

Thank you for broadening my horizons and
helping me realize that words are only ever words
and they won't change the world they,
won't always mean the same thing to everyone,
they won't always even be true. Thank you
for your stay.

"Your poetry is lonely," he said,
"Yet you write to feel less alone."

"I know," I answered the way wind answers
a hot afternoon jogger on the highway's edge.
There was a silence, the only noises were
the keys of his old typewriter

click clacking away at themselves,
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. He got up
and walked to the door, put his hand
on the doorknob, opened his heart

and faced me once more,
"It wasn't meant to hurt you, Love.
That's the last thing she said to me
and life is too precious to waste
thinking everyone's out to get you."

With that he left me to my thoughts,
replaying the scene again and again,
maybe I should get a typewriter myself
to write my story just as powerfully
as he wrote his. To be in some young person's
dream, inspiring them the way he does
for me. . .

"Your poetry is lonely," he said,
"Yet you write to feel less alone."

"I know," I answered the way wind answers
a hot afternoon jogger on the highway's edge.
There was a silence, the only noises were
the keys of his old typewriter

click clacking away at themselves,
"I'm sorry," I sobbed. He got up
and walked to the door, put his hand
on the doorknob, opened his heart

and faced me once more,
"It wasn't meant to hurt you, Love.
That's the last thing she said to me
and life is too precious to waste
thinking everyone's out to get you."

With that he left me to my thoughts,
replaying the scene again and again,
maybe I should get a typewriter myself
to write my story just as powerfully
as he wrote his. To be in some young person's
dream, inspiring them the way he does
for me. . .

"Where would we be if I hadn't thrown my halo off the clouds
and given my wings away before I jumped down?

The ash won't wash away from my hands
nor will the dirt on my face and it feels like the cuts will never heal
because the previous scars still haven't begun to fade.
It's like the night we watched the sky fall down
and counted the stars as they began to die
when everything went black and the smoke continued to rise. "
you thought to yourself as you walked around exploring your new town.

"Oh angel, why was it always so hard to breathe whenever you were around?
Aren't you supposed to take my hand and hold my heart,
make everything okay as we watch the world around us fall apart?"
I wondered night after night from the safety of my room
dancing in the chaos of simple songs with newly weighted lyrics.

Then days passed and we got further and further away from each other.
You ran in one direction and I followed in the wrong one.
Until someone saw the pain in your eyes and asked,
"Where has your sinner gone? You need them to balance out your purity.
Even angel's should know that's the way 'God' has you play the game,"
which left you broken on the sidewalk asking why
the swallows dance above the sun and where we would be

without all the delirium.





Oh angel, I thought breathing was difficult when you were here,
only now do I understand how completely impossible it was

before.

And the ashes can't be forgotten
because people can't forget
what they've been taught is
important but others stand there
listening not understanding.

That's how i feel.

I keep a camera in my bag
at all times, I never like to miss
the things going on that manage
to make me smile. Children playing tag
in the street while moms make dinner
or the way petals hang just right on a rose.

Honestly, there's a rhythm to the world
that artist capture on film every day
and all I'll ever ask is that you give me
the chance to be like that.

It's not something you can search for
and find so easy; there's more to it
than that, there's the adventure of getting to
the moment, the right place at the right time.
i keep a camera by my side everywhere I go
in case I find the kind of beauty
I can only wish I possessed.

But really,
in the end,
it's not so bad
hiding
behind the
camera.

The shadow inside my shadow screams
a blood curling scream, breaking
the silence of a cheap hotel
somewhere big with walls paper thin

and still the old ways we shared
haunt me in ways you will never
understand. Because you have yet
to spend a single midnight in Rome
while mending a broken soul.

This morning I found your note, the one that reads:

"I just want to curl up in some dark place
where no one can ever find me so I can
drown in crystalized sadness and crimson
painted secrets. That way I don't worry anyone
when a stranger walks into the hotel bathroom
to see that scene asking questions I'm not leaving
the answers to. Don't worry, I'll keep my promise
and love you until the ends of time and even after
Death himself dies, but this is just another one of
those things people just have to do. "

I'm not going to lie, that does sound like a good plan right now.

She does everything in her power
to make you happy and it never seems
to do her any good. She gave up her
world and everything she's ever known
for you to give her one chance.

Day after day she wakes up
with a smile on her face in hopes
you might see her in some new light
because night after night she pushes
herself to the furthest limits of life
trying to think of new things to do
for your attention. It's killing her.

Strong and brave, brilliant and sweet
she's one of those girls that will do
anything for love, even when they could
do so much better than where they're at.

Willing to die for a moment of
your precious time. Willing to
sacrifice anyone or anyhting
for a single word directed at her,
you need to understand how far
she will go for you.

You would be amazed if only you
knew the extent of her heart,
the pain behind her eyes, or the
way she's always felt about you;
and really that's all she wants
is for a spot in your heart.

She bottles herself up waiting
for the day you'll ask her name
or smile in her direction. She
stays quiet and alone the way you
once did, and you would never know.

I can tell you her story
because she is me, and I know
you are reading this, so I
thought maybe today would be
a good day to understand the extent
of a love that has yet to be born

The life of a poet is difficult
ups and downs, dark and light
so many things misunderstood;
but who's to claim wrong or right?

I wish I could tell you
that I lived a life like that
but something makes me think
I am far from ready for that.

Rhymes are no quick and
metaphors and similes dont stick
like glue to paper with thoughts in mind
because rhythm always gets me sick.

The life of a poet is not for me
I cannot write, I don't know
the tricks and skills like you;
poetry just isn't my show.

Don't tell me you love me - I know you don't...

I'm nothing special, these words mean nothing,
all I see is squiggles and dots in frail ebony
dashed across a vividly bland screen.

These works are true,
every single one - real to me,
real to some part of you...
somewhere too far deep to see.

Words do no good, voices linger but do no good
no one can hear them the way I mean.
Letters in a strand linked by only air
they land in delicately beautiful lines of nothingness.

Don't tell me you understand - I promise you don't...

Because at the moment, I'm lost, just lost,
at the second I don't know my own name
let alone the point of this.

Theres a pen in my hand,
I don't know how it got there.
My mouth is moving,
nothing is coming out though.
Somehow my hands can move - can write
but I don't remember how.

Don't tell me I'll be okay - you dont know okay...

Once again I sit here
in this busy coffee shop
listening to the drama unfold
between lovers lost and
kids sipping hot cocoa
while mothers read and fathers
are still at work, at least
that's what they say.

There's an artist drawing
heavily in a sketchbook
there's an anime character
with eyes like fields of
bluebells, she's beautiful
just like him.

Everlasting days pass quite
quickly when I'm here
watching people getting caught
in the virtual spiderwebs of
internet surfing and the
moral strength of ignoring
cheesy compliments with
unhealthy intentions.

Now that I think about it,
I'm probably better off without
this nonsense, but i enjoy it
far too much to go anywhere else.

As you go walking past I have to ask
if you even saw the look on her face
when terrible things were words unsaid
that ate her away,
disobeying the hands of fate.
Your little Darling is growing up so fast
in a world so lost and you don't seem to do
a thing about it.

They are all animals out there,
it's a dog eat dog world out there.
That's what everyone says, well,
maybe not, but it's something like that.
Bitter, lonely, and above all depressing.
And as day break arrives you think it will
all be just fine you fed her and clothed her,
taught her how to bathe and listen authority.
But what good does it do
when she's not living her own life?

And when you see her finally having just a little fun,
satisfied just once, cuddled up close to someone
she loves you throw a fit and say she's too young.
But there's nothing happening, they are
right before your very eyes and everything
feels okay for once, but you
don't want it that way.

You want her to fear you because
you need the control.

And you care in front of people because
you have to or she goes away and so
does all your stupid power.

Don't worry, I know what's going on,
that's why I wrote this for you.

Hoping you'd see
it's all about me.

In the silence all I hear
is the steady hum of an
unnecessary air conditioner
in the middle of our coldest
winter yet.

And the steady but melodic
click clack of a keyboard
as my laptop gently rises
and falls with the pressure
of each key and the breathing
of me.

I guess that really isn't silence,
after all, but it should be
when you are used to people
fighting in the background
or music blaring with
lost hope.

And I read what so many others
write, commenting to the best
of my ability, only something
keeps getting in
my way.

Why can't I be as great as them
and where did all of my inspiration
run off to this time. Am I all alone
or is it coming back
someday?

So in this stillness that is not
so still and the silence that
is actually quite noisy
for some

I am searching for my muse
wondering where she could
have gone.

If you see her walking down
the street or passing through
your dreams would it be too
much of me to ask you
to send her back
my way?

Monday is still asleep,
Tuesday tries to wake him gently,
when she can.
Wednesday doesn't know what to think,
he's very emotional.
Thursday councils him to no avail.
Friday is quite a handful,
but a cute one,
for she is the baby.
Saturday tries to be a "good boy"
yet he doesn't even know what that is.
Sunday, well, she is a stay at home mom,
that lost her husband to a war way back when. She prays day and night that
her children will have good lives,
but she does not believe it is possible.

January is the oldest of the months,
though he doesn't really care.
February is a hoplessly lost romantic.
March is lucky, but far too realistic for her taste. April dances across the lawn
in the rain
and smiles all the time,
even when she is not happy in the slightest.
May is haughty and he doesn't get it.
June sings songs outside of July's window,
he is trying to win her heart.
August, the loner,
does well in school and carries a million issues. September secretly loves him,
but is too shy to say.
October the prankster pranks us all
but never gets into trouble.
November is thankful
for the tears and laughs alike
but not for himself.
As for myself,
I am December,
they say I am low-key with a heart of gold,
but I think not.

In a way we are a family
and we mean the world to each other.
Though we do not share the blood,
we fight,
we cry,
we bleed,
we tear each other apart
when the moment feels right.
One day people will know
just who we are, but for now,
I guess this is as good as it gets.

Glimpses out a bland window at nothing but a sour scene
I wonder where exactly it is I am going and why.
Should you know, should you see me pulled over on the edge
please do tell me when I got there and how to free my soul.

Trees race me as I go west into the sunlight,
clouds and sea wave gingerly as we part at the crossroads,
flowers bow their heads south towards the warmer homes,
children dance north along main street asking who they could be;
I guess the world still has some hearts that care.

Then I leave town reminded of past friendly faces
yet relieved of pain inflicting demons of my home.
Perhaps this is an adventure that could be fun... I suppose
or maybe it's a vacation, world only knows I could use some of those.

So I keep going slowly slipping into a dream world
I can't keep my eyes open any longer, though I'm still behind the wheel,
Some people would tell me to get a room and sleep
but I know myself all too well, I can't do that and not not weep,
too many memories from places like this under these stars.

So I guess I'll just pull into the rest stop ahead
hold my mind in my hands and wonder how your life goes.

In a way this is meant to be my letter to you
simply saying hey, how do you do;
now though it's my cry to everyone and anyone at all.

Though I am not crying for your love,
nor am I begging for another new old friend.

In the end, I'm sitting here, just venting
about the pain my brain says I've seen
and explaining this trip
through all the cobweb and all
as I tried to find someone new to be.


With Love,
M.R.K

I appreciate you
though I despise you
to the ends of the earth.

I appreciate you
for helping create me
yet I loathe everything
you do and say.

You killed me so many times
and still I appreciate you
for teaching me the strife
I will
never
need to cause my friends.

You ripped me apart
every single day
but I appreciate you
for reminding me that
I deserve much better.

People hate you
I appreciate you
though you've done me
more wrong than them.

I love your soul
but I can't stand
the rotted rat you
really are.

In the end please know
I appreciate you too

Sleep is important, I know this now,
especially when I will be talking to you
at 2 a.m. because no one else is awake
enough to hear the things we say or
the secrets we love to share.

Last night, I was really not myself,
I couldn't have been cause you called me
just to hear me laugh or at least have
proof I was not drowning in tears or
watching blood run down my wrist again.

something about love, just not the way
I thought you cared. then something that
made me melt, I believed because it felt
so real, so true. later mention of my
stupid dream being more than a dream to you.

I don't know if I'm going crazy, or
what I should be thinking about this,
but I just hoped maybe writing it out
would keep me from losing my head.

Sleep is a great thing - believe me
when I say it. Especially when the love
of your life is the most unpredictable
paranoid monster you will ever know.

To be honest I don't remember much
other than the things you would do to
keep my blood inside, and that I'm more
mature than you were at this age, or something
closeish to that. I don't know anything anymore.

Your words took my breath away,
they stole all my words and now
this old computer is eating my words
up exactly the way you did when we
first met. So I'll say I am lost and leave
things there, hoping you will understand.

When you were once somebody's everything
and then you become a ghost
lingering, haunting their every move
then you make the space between their heart
and their mind even greater than it already was.

But of course this is just another rant
with all the things I will never say
to your face the way I always wanted to,
so this is my declaration of moving on:

As much as I love you, I do not miss you at all;
our dreams have become water from the moon,
and from this moment on my every thought
of you shall turn to smoke and mist
only to later d .r .i .f .t away

almost

completely.

Do the dead love?

Is the last kiss
of delight really so
cold to blind,
leave, then save
us all over again.

Do the dead love?

Writing all their secrets down
as tombstones crumble
on top of them yet again.

Darling, do tell me,

do the dead love?

"Bring on the rain, if you feel
you must. I stopped believing
in you a long time ago. The monster
is you, not me the mere mortal
in your pittiful little book. Walk away,
if you can't keep an open mind!
Be someone decent if you're going to
have them all call you 'God', especially
when you don't deserve it,
in your bitter haste to judge us all.
No longer the apples in your own eye,
so bring on the rain, if you feel
you must! It would be such a sweet
lullaby at your own final night! You
don't deserve to reign if you
can't take a little rain."

Screams
the ******* the street corner known
for singing the lonely ballad of the forgotten
to all who dare walk by. What happened to you,
my fallen angel and when did anyone get the idea
it was alright to trample the flower just
because she was small enough
to be forgotten
again...

Shame, shame you never listened
all that well, she said it every single day,

Wordless reminders and action filled phrases
she misses you as much as you miss her
if not infinitely more - I promise.

Shame, shame you don't listen
a little more, every night
she still screams your name

Who knew cows could write?
I barely knew they could fight,
But I was ever so wrong
Cause here comes one singing a love song.

What is it, click, clack, moo
Or is it more like Dr. who?
What is this world coming to
Cause one day cows will be ruling you.

We all know what its like to have our power go out...

What happens when our spirit goes out
or the fire in your heart? You don't
have a storm to wait for or anyone
to call for help.

A life has ended or a love was lost
and what can you do? Start a storm,
scream, rage, break away, do
anything to quench your pain...b
It's all going to be okay.

Every time it rains you can make it rain...

You, yes, You have the power to make it
unrain. The sun will come out again and
birds will sing, if only you gave reason,
that's up to you.

Life begins again and love is always there
you need to see it. Open your eyes,
smile, laugh, see your friends, do
something to feel a bit better.
It's all going to be okay.

Fires fade but the embers almost always stay.

All I'll ever ask of you is to feel my love
oozing from every heart in the room
when I say those words, those
unnecessary things that are said
too much but mean nothing now anyway.

Don't look at me with those eyes,
or come 'round here wearing that cheap
cupcake perfume. One day the world's gonna
end and everyone's mind will be thinking of us
laughing on park benches and singing in allies
for dancing shadows as everything envied us
so very much.

You keep leaving without a second thought,
you keep coming back to lay the world at my feet.
And when you're here you're not. When you're
gone you're here.

Baby, don't look at me with those eyes,
you know I'd do anything for you,
but Baby, this time it's over,
we're through.

That's what you said, so if that's what you want
okay. Just know the world's gonna end
tonight.