Sitting.
Sitting.
Sitting.
Sitting.
Sitting.
Sitting.
Sitting.
..­.
you thought it would go on forever,
didn't you?
So did I.
See the thing that we have in common,
well, the one thing we can at least decide on
is that
we all believe that some things,
maybe a few things,
maybe everything,
lasts forever.

Your memories,
if it's for the moment.
Adrenaline,
if YOLO.

What's funny is that,
if you only live one time,
then why do yo count your successes?
goals?
memories?
experiences?
If you live for the moment,
why does the past matter?
Should it not be
the past?

I hate this.
I hate the way I hide,
the way I shy away from
...
things I've done.

I hate that i don't have a secret
except for the one that
makes me bleed.

No one knows that secret.
and you may ask why.
But I couldn't tell you.
No one knows that secret.
To be honest, I hope they never will.

I don't need a knife to bleed,
or pain to make me hurt.
Simply
the thought
knowing,
that I cannot break these chains.
They lied to me, they said that
they would never be for me.

Ha.
I suppose that's
all
my stubborn streak
ever gives me.

It's funny really,
the idea,
the notion, the gesture,
that we are all
humans,
intellectual beings.
The concept of controlling this
"intelligence"
of ours,
that we can actually
understand it,
would be like forcing the moon to appear
and to stop it causing the waves.

Without this
"intellect",
we are nothing but animals,
instinctual creatures.
But then what is the difference?
We can train cats and dogs.
But they do not advance their thinking
to create something new.

And still,
this "intelligence",
you cannot see it,
but it can be measured.
You cannot touch it,
but it can be shared.

It's funny, really,
that the most intricate
creatures
rely on something
seemingly nonexistent.

A ship sails
Heading nowhere;
Leaving nowhere.
Just a simple ship, going out on the sea,
Where the calm, smooth, glistening waters create
Waves over a bottomless world of darkness.
So many adventures and mysteries, so many new things to be discovered,
So many dreams and hopes, never to be fulfilled.

The sea is a place that asks all, tells all.
The sea is contradictory, ironic,
But always, the sea is listening to those that understand it.
As the waves crash upon the shores, the sea chants one thing:
“Believe. Dream. Hope.
Believe. Dream. Be.”

The sky is the color of dusty water;
brown, blue, and a watered down gray.
The rain beats down as mercilessly as a killer on his victim,
or as the sun on a hot summer’s noon.
It brings back memories:
Memories of hate,
memories of scorn,
memories of hopefulness,
memories without a proper home.
Memories that only seem to exist in a world where there is no happiness left,
no air to breathe.
Is this really the life I lived?
How can on person feel so happy in a place that is closer to hell than anything on this earth?
It must be impossible.
And yet,
it is the past,
and if one cannot change the past,
they can simply **** off all memory.

Outside, the air itself seems frozen,
and the cold seeps through
the windows and doors
of this old, familiar house.
The sky is dyed a gray-blue,
as if it had been washed out of almost all color.
The tiny, white crystals
that fall from the sky
are like ballet dancers,
gliding smoothly and quickly through the air
for perhaps just a moment,
then blend in with the others
as their solo reaches an end.
I sit here,
in my favorite, old, comfy chair,
watching the snowflakes.
I can feel the warmth of the fire
from far across the room,
radiating like the warmth of a child’s smile.
I can hear the sizzling,
the popping,
the crackling.
And even though my subconscious admits
that this will come to an end
at some future moment of time,
I am momentarily,
content.

It tears me to pieces-
knowing that you belong to her,
and not to me.
But how?
You told me you wanted more,
you told me you loved me,
you acted in a way that made everyone else
believe that the words you had said to me
were the truth.
Then maybe one day,
you will sing for me.
Maybe one day,
you will hold me close.
Maybe one day,
you will be mine.
But today is not that day.
It should be,
but that day is not today.
I can see it as if it had been planned:
You will have called me when I was too busy to pick up the phone,
and then waited for me to call you back.
You would have held my hand as we walked from class to class,
and I would have trusted you.
You would have gently kissed me,
and I would have kissed your soft lips back.
You would have let me fall asleep in the comfort of your arms,
and I would have breathed in sync with the rhythm of your heart
beating against your chest.
You would have sat there with me,
and I with you,
and there would be no need for anything
other than understanding of silence.
But none of this is for me right now.
This is all for her.
Because she gave you everything at the price
of being caught committing a crime,
and I,
I gave you everything at the cost of
my heart,
my mind,
and my soul.
I love you.
with every piece of my heart,
with every shred of my soul,
with every thought that passes through my mind,
and with every word that falls from the tip of my tongue,
I love you.

This one was different. Not the kind of different you hear about from Hollywood. Not the kind of different that’s only in fairytales, where the farm hand has a heart of gold and the duke wants to steal the maiden’s gold. No; not this time. This was a bad different. But one that felt…so good, so right, one that simply couldn’t be ignored. He may have been the cast to her broken heart, but I suppose we’ll never know.

The first one’s kiss tasted sweet. Sweet to match his chocolate eyes, sweet to match the music that he created, sweet to match the tenderness of his heart. But his sweets belonged to another, who turned and bloodied his back.

The third one’s kiss was nothing particular…almost bland to the taste. But his was warm and comforting and addictive to taste…he drew her in with lips like roses coated with the ashes of a smoked off drug. He kissed her once…then again…and again…and again…and again…he drew her in, he coaxed her and drew her close to him, letting his fingers gently pull her chin, her hands…and he left her when he had healed her and when he was breaking, and she returned to save him with his own poisin.

The second one’s kiss was the different one.
How so different was his.
It drew her in...or perhaps it was her broken heart...but her drew her in and she backed away into the sweet lies of his persistence. And she gave him her all, every last drop of loving, anguishing blood, and she left him without a clue, without a sign, without a hope...

And yet, his was different.
But that’s all that should rightfully be said.