Why is it that every time
I come in search for you,
I find you alone on the floor
Turning black and blue?
Tell me, what does he do to you
Behind these tightly closed doors?
Or why you no longer dance with me
Because your body is always sore.
You and I, my darling, were happy
Before he ever walked in.
We'd dance barefoot in the fields,
Married to the earth and wind.
But when you told me that he loved you
I believed you and set you free.
I'd always hoped you'd find someone
Much worthier than me.
But sweetheart, why so many tears?
You wear long sleeves more and more.
What happened to the lovely summer dresses
That once upon a time you wore?
And why, sweetpea, is he never home
When I come visit during the day?
And why is it always night
That you choose to run away?
Run away again tonite.
Come knocking on my door.
I will let you in; I swear
That you will hurt no more.

If my blood is as red as your lips,
how can i not draw it?
And if your fingertips are as smooth as my back
why are they not traveling it?
If my laugh is as chilling as thunder
then why is it not echoing in your mind?
If my heart beats as fast as your shaking hands
then why aren't you holding it?
If your lungs are as black as my fingertips
then why isn't my touch making your breath come faster?
If my skin has as many goosebumps as yours does chills
then why aren't they touching?
If our souls play the same song
then why aren't we together.

I'm sorry I'm so boring, I'm just too empty today.

my colors are grey and my blood has long been drained out and replaced with a black muck that makes it hard to move much less try to be charming. I've got cinder block shoes and a matching stone sweater which weigh me down as i trek through the empty land masses, trying to find you. I wear my smile mask in hopes of coming across as someone you might want to talk to or be friends with, but it makes it so hard to breathe and taking it off means someone might be able to undo the laces on my cinder block shoes, or unbutton my stone sweater, or kiss my hardend lips softly but passionately enough to set off a series of tingles that make the guck in my veins turn back into glowing crimson blood, filling me in a way i'm not sure how to deal with. And that's terrifying. Because once all of my armor is taken away, my poor hero is left only with my cracked, scarred, and stained body that was ruined by years of torture from wearing my burdensome ensemble.

I'm sorry i can't be perfect for you, I'm just too broken today.

Darling, I am not here to write about your eyes and the stars in them. I tried to count too many times and I got too lost in the dreams imbedded in your corneas. I'm not here to talk about how the sun only rises because you give it a reason to, because it still sets every evening so it doesn't have to hear your steady breathing while you sleep. I'm here to tell you about how you have words that cut me like a saw cuts bone and how my ribs are held together with cheap twine and my spine is duct taped together. Here to say that you make my heart race at a pace that my body cannot keep up with. I didn't come to tell you that the tides are kissing the shore every time you laugh, because that's not what your laugh is like. No, if the rusting of iron made a sound, it would be your laugh. There are no flowers woven in your hair - instead, there are hornets and their nests lay settled in your throat and your intention is to sting me every time you open your mouth to say something that isn't my name. This isn't about poetry I've read about the moon and the sun and the cosmic loneliness of every star despite the presence trillions of them in the same sky. This is about how some stars find your presence so alluring that they begin to tumble from the sky and this is what we wish upon. This is about bruised lips mumbling words carved into coffee tables and ****** fingers tracing the rim of your favorite coffee cup. This isn't about love. This is about you.

The year is 2095.
Religion is black and gold.
Reciting prayers are now the only way you can sleep, and all the conversations you had with others that never involved moving your mouth,
and I believe people smoke cigarettes because there is a salvation in being able to stop parts of you from growing that do not know how to do anything else. It occurred to me that we make everything before we even see it, and that is how extensive beauty spreads, it exists without acknowledgement, yet it is always there.

I woke up without my senses, not knowing the flavor of the string which holds these
linnens afloat on the laundry
of life's backyard, but I know it was where it was supposed to be, as most things are.
I do not believe in phantoms but I believe that when asking questions, there is always a response.
The world answers you back every time, and although
I have yet to understand the dust found between its proverbs that
I assume was beaten out of old rugs and woven from cobwebs.
What else is there?
I am constantly torn between being lost and being alive and looking for the difference.
Constantly torn between loving where you live, and trying to become
I found so many ways to be, that I never spent the time looking for ways to understand.

If you think I cannot be like the boy who loves the burn of his favorite whiskey
and grabs a pretty girl around the waist
twirling her and whispering in her ear
lovely lies.
And when they get back to his apartment
and fall on the bed
where he keeps a tattered notebook
and a pack of cigarettes under.
The one who has bright dead eyes
begging you to fall in
and then capturing you in their depths
and making you claw your way out,
defeated.
Even though its easier to stay,
among the sorrow there
and the hurt
and the hate
that he covers up so well
making it easier to stumble into
unknowingly into the depths
falling deeper
and deeper,
like Alice down the rabbit hole.
And you'll want to stay.
He'll watch you reach for his hand
and he'll grab the bottle instead.
You'll reach for him amongst the blankets
and he'll reach for a cigarette.
He'll watch you fall asleep
the way you breathe;
reaching a hand to play with a strand of your hair
but then pull away.
Not allowing himself
and leaving you to go walk the streets
aimlessly,
coming back at dawn
finding her there
knowing she wants to stay
and hold you
and fix you
and you will make her leave.
Because you are gone beyond repair
and her heart is full of love,
and yours is not.
You will not let her in its crushed blackness
because you wouldn't wish that on anyone.
She will leave
and he will drink
until his eyes lose focus
and his hands shake.
He will do the same thing all over again,
catch the attention of a girl with golden hair
and stormy eyes.
Torturing himself even more
because he knows she looks like her.
The one he broke.
The one he let in.
The one whose eyes now resembles his.
The one who does the exact thing he does
every night.
So do not think I cannot be like him.
Because I have learned from the best.

Why is my heart so heavy for no reason at all?
Was it made like this? Am i destined to fall?
Who is this pushing me down when i try to soar past,
the agony in my heart that appears ever thriving and vast?
It's always raining on the inside, and now it seems that i'm flooding
the feelings so sad, the words are so cutting
I've learned how to swim, but my arms are getting tired
and i'm losing all hope, I've become uninspired
Someone please, come sever the cinder blocks of self-pity that are tied to my feet
before i drown in this dismal downpour, dragged down by a heart of concrete
Oh no the flood, it's pouring out of my eyes
Who is that there? Can't you hear my cries?
The tears fall and they fall, they stream down my face
I ask them what's the hurry? is this some kind of race?
Don't worry tears, there's plenty of time to cry
when you're so overwhelmingly sad, **and you don't know why.