I should do something
It's not going to go away
Time lasts forever

I hide my poetry from everyone,
Every piece from my dark twisted poems,
To my nature expressions.

I'm not sorry for writing them,
But I'm embarrassed to show,
What I do in my spear time.

Maybe it's because I think they will judge me
Or because I don't like my own work.
Maybe they wouldn't like it.
It's my biggest secret
That I guard with my life,
Like it's the most important thing.

I've never been normal,
But it's weird even for me right?
Even if it's my best poem ever,
It'll be only my eyes that view it
And the members of poetry websites.

I would rather share my work,
With people like me,
Who I've never met and
Who understand how amazing writing is.

I write for myself.
It's almost impossible to turn my pain into art when it hurts as terribly as it does.
I am on the very edge of growth, hardly a first step.
Every line I write, I can only think of those who lead me here.
Calling them lovers is like calling my best friend a dog.
Sure, he's a canine, but he is no dog. He is a best friend. To me.
Calling them lovers was once accurate, that's how I felt, but now;
They're more. She- Is more. More than the ones I daydream of.
More than the ones coating the walls of my nightmares.
They are not people. They are not women. They are not loves. They are, unexplainable.
I showed Belle my soul. She showed me hers. And we encompassed each other. One step ahead.
Faith too. But she was always two steps back, never forward. And she didn't really love me.
And the most beautiful name, the one society shortened and butchered to simply "Kit-Kat."
She- was more than a fascination. She was an enabler.  Like being the target guiding an arrow,
She lead me, kick-started my life. She was the first.
Or at least, this declining helix spiral I call my current living condition.

Now this winter has come, an annuality to when it started.
I was laughing and learning her gorgeous name at this time last year.
I remember walking around that empty playground awaiting her responses to my petty flirts.
All was well. But I was too slow, and he was too entrancing, mature, for her.
She chose- and it wasn't me she was looking at- it killed me.
I craved her. I dreamed her. I can still recall one specific, for I have it saved.
Here it is:
     "I had a dream late last summer where I awoke in a white room in a comfy white bed.
      The room had a window for an entire wall and outside I could see snow melting off of black,
      naked trees which spread deep in to a forest of the same colors.
      And that's when I noticed a beautiful white face with dark hair and two blue eyes.
      She was just sitting there in light blue underwear and a white tee-shirt and she looked at me and smiled.
      And I moved over and kissed her and I lay over her just staring into those chilled moons for eyes of hers for the longest time."
     "And that for me, is nirvana."
And that for me, was nirvana.
Her and I. Winter. Purity, love. Cold and warm. White, blue, black and brown. The colors us.
God- I miss that. Those dreams. Those fantasies. Getting nearer to that, her voice and laugh.
-

But roses are indeed red.
Usually because my wandering hands doubt the keenness of their thorns.
Similar to how I doubt the sharpness of my love.
Red with passion, then with pain.

Still, beautiful.

Its winter again
Times’ Getting colder, and darker
And she’s coming home
To take away my lover-
My passionate therapy
Oh she’s come to take my best friend
And whatever is left of my sanity
**Take it, take it all and put them in ******* bags
-But don’t you ******* touch my poetry

When you come near, I can’t disappear into my mind,
When it’s so clear, I can see what you were trying to find,

I’m so done.
I guess nobody won.

‘Cause hours like these, come with dead flowers around,
And towers like these, always come showering down,

I can’t pretend.
That wasn’t the end.

Some parts of me, come with holes- for you to see,
Some parts of me, parts of my soul- have holes that bleed,

The good parts of me, can fold and come undone,
You versus me, I guess nobody won.

                ~Marshall Hiatt, 11:25 PM, 11-13-13.

Tune you turn into
Play with tunes, play with words now,
Act as I was new

These winter mornings make me miss you,
Your scent, your breath, how you always left me,
The pet names we called each other,
The small pieces of foreign languages we meant,

Your “Lo siento”s, your Elvish “I love you”s (‘Amin mela lle’),
The day of silence, I learned to sign my heart for you,
I learned so much through it all, my brain teemed,
But you only taught me how my pain was true.
    (And how to kiss.)

Winter mornings without warmth.
A compass with no North.

11-12-13