The desire to be an artist,
To be a poet, to be immortal.
Knowing there's a land of words
If I can only reach the portal.
Drown in ****** and Wine
In a tub filled to the brim,
Letting France run down my throat,
Letting France run down my chin.
Words lay at the bottom
Of every bottle (or so they say)
Convincing us it's worth the *****
And the headache the next day.
Kiss goodbye the sound mind,
And enter insanity.
Welcome to the world of arts
With streets of vanity.
There stands Shakespeare on the balcony;
Kurt Cobain sits in the corner.
This place you are one
Where anywhere else you are a foreigner.
Here there is no day.
Here there is only night.
Here you sit making art
By the candle light.
But here there is no laughter,
For an artists knows no joy.
Instead here lies the dreams
Of all the dead girls and boys.
And here there is no rest,
For an artist knows no peace.
Here is the land of artists.
Is it everything you dreamed?

No act of kindness is truly kind
When to another's heart is blind
The honesty of what's beneath
The hardened steel of friendship's sheath

Encapsulated memories
Enraptured deep in love's warm breeze
When longing turns to searing pain
So much to lose and naught to gain

Still, above all else there is a joy
That lingers in the heart's employ
Time will tell how deep it lies
Until that moment, the smile belies

I cherish your voice
Like the last drop of coffee
On a restless morning.

I wish it was us raining
Falling and melting together
As the sky's tears do.

I long to be the song
Circling tiredly through your head
When you lay down at night to sleep.

I'd give up three meals
If every time I ate
I dined on the warmth of your lips.

I wish to be steaming water
Rolling over your skin
Making you sigh with satisfaction.

I want to be the towel
That kills the cold air
Right when you leave the shower.

We will be the clock
That ticks to forever
For time is no challenging measure.

In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats

Rain weaves weary paths on the
old Aurelian stone busts
like lilting music in a
deserted ballroom.

Yellow cobblestones echo
underneath black soled shoes and
sickly noses sing.

Across the street, children laugh
like the breaking shaft of a
silverish door key in a
cold iron-clad lock.

After the world falls
From underneath you
I will be the net to catch you

When you break down
And can’t do anything but cry
I will be your shoulder to cry on

After you fall apart
And collapse to the ground
I will be there to pick you up

Let yourself crumble
Let yourself shatter
I will be the one to put you back together after you splatter

When the world seems cold and lonely
And you feel like no one loves you
I will be the one to prove you wrong

A thin, glistening sleeve of rime
refracted the rays of sunrise light
into a bright and shiny morning.

I stood tall amongst the resonance of the
distant hymn of birds,
trying to conceal my
quivering knees.
I took a breath of
the anticipation in the air -
the breeze preparing itself for
the coldest season of the year.

I'm in motion now,
realizing that time goes on,
but unable to comprehend that
time is going right now.

Yet I have my Compass
and I have my Map.
I will sing melodies of hope
for the wind of Winter to carry away.

For I am convinced that
the distant hymn of birds
is the melody of hope
you, too, sing into the wind.

the air hangs heavy
of dignity in spaces meant
to house a golden king.

despondent, alone,
i am the silent sunken stone
of understanding pebbles
bathed in shallowater sighs
of quiet far-off longing.

all one; air
rushes in and fills my wings-
i fly and breath the sky.

a sun of your heart
warms me through the cracks
of injured earth
centuries apart from day,

i rise and smell
the song of your smile.