this little number
is for your sake
cause if you know
just how I feel
I won't have to fake
make no mistake
this is the quake
inside us both
if you hold me near
you can feel it too
you take away my blue
make me feel alive
anyways,
I think I love you

Yesterday, all things were dark
Like burning candles in the dusk.
Hibiscus, pear, and witches brew
And dragon's blood caught in the musk

Notions now, seemed **** then
And stealing out into the dark
I dreamt I was the highway man
After my Bess's fickle heart.

The moon above; cycloptic eye
Watched reverently as I crept
Across the mud and bracken path
Where willow trees once stooped and wept.

The musician crickets, with violin legs
Stroked their notes under the sky
And chirping peepers, peeking out
Sang louder in their sweet reply.

A long forgotten hidden grove
That bore the markers of the dead
Was where, for peace, I stopped to roam
Over the grass, to clear my head.

And there- amongst the silent mass,
Who find repose under the land-
I listened to their noiseless words
The silence, which I understand.

Most men run like clockwork.
Each piece is relevant to the system.
Alas, I am different.
I am a clock, like all other men,
But I am filled with broken parts:
Broken gears, broken hands,
And broken everything else.
I can no longer move forward in time
For my hands are stuck
Cursed to tell and retell one minute.

Why would the clockmaker
Turn me into a monstrosity?
Is this a punishment for my sins
Or is it a challenge I cannot win?
Am I broken to start with
Or is this a cruel joke?
I wish not to retell the same time
Because it is a time that haunts me.
A time that has brought me grief.
Fix me, so I may not be stuck.

I struggle how to begin this speech
But reaching the end is effortless
Words disappear on the surface of my lips
The incarcerated refuse the offer of egress

Hands of the returning past asphyxiate me
Quiescent emotions abandon their state of ease
I hear myself implore for oxygen
But I wonder- have I asked for the grip's release?

Rain pours from the tenebrous sky
The wind roars and the waters rise
I swim to the deepest trench to obtain silence
But the orchestra of yesterday rejects demise

Clips of the blissful days flash behind my lids
The warmth you provided ghosts around my frame
But reminders of your egotism thwack my head
I recall how I was played like a cheap game

For so long, I thought I didn't lie
But then I realize, ostentatious smiles adorn my face
For numerous times, I denied it
But now I claw the sheets, dismissing lessons of grace

Incinerated portraits resurface on my bedroom walls
Your shade of scarlet agony replaces my bright hues
And I'm torn, I'm completely torn
Like the love letters I've written to dispel your blues

I still want you, darling
I still want you despite all the agony
I'm a paradoxical being
I want you, but I abhor acquaintance with clemency

Poets have instinctive expressions
Of the innate indulgence of passions
They can convey the deepest thought.
And the myriad sentiments man sought.

Poets have perceptive imaginations
Of the mysterious things of creations
They can portray the unseen splendors
And the multitude pleasures man adors.

Poets have receptive intuitions
Of the intimate human impressions
They can inscribe the precise scene
And the diverse measures man seen.

Poets have speculative dreams
Of the infinities of all poetic themes
They manipulate to signify the verses
And the poetic rhymes man converses.