I have no words to write
My pen pulls like the ocean
Revealing how I feel
Like writing in the sand

What I would tell you
Things you should know
Things I don't know how to say

I wish you could know
I wish I could tell
More than my words could ever show

But I'll give you my pen
And maybe - - just maybe
Your words could speak to mine

Even if they lack that echoing call
I would still hope
That you could hear
And understand

But I have no words to write
And my pen pulls like the ocean
It reveals the words to tell how I feel,
But takes them all back, like writing in the sand.

It's pure joy, this flower for a child in a covert land
     Beautiful and growing in this distraught, connected world
It's changing its message to the child, as its colors turn inside-out.

     A blurred bud, mocking with its pretense,
All the young one hears, is a council of forgotten remembrances.

     This flower of hope, as empty as a hospital bed.

Not one. Two; one-two-one one-two-one; Fever.
     Dancing in the fire light.
There is nothing left here but fear in comfort and fever.

     Twisting symbols of dancing red
Blending with blues
     Around and into stoic and barren, steadfast gold.

Dancing red comforts the child's disdain for fear.

     The young child sees the heart in this rose,
Remembers growing fond of the pretense.
     Watches as the red goes white, mystery gone.

Fever, gone.

I spend hours with a killer
Watching him claim murderers' blood
Avenging the light of day
Against the in-convictable life-takers

He studies the work of others
Under the guise of a friend
a mask, hollow, unfeeling
Lost and uncommitted
He simply wanders and avoids
Calculating.

But I am wasting away the hours
Half watching and learning
Enjoying.
Learning.

He travels his past,
I mine.
Drifting
While the rain calls me away,
Tap tap tapping
My memories call me away,
Calling and calling, pulling...

I am drifting
Rain and memories
Traveling through love and blood
I am drifting,

But not to sleep...

"All the guys always dream of Angelina Jolie"
she tells herself- "and she's usually in the ****..."
She's gonna thrive off that, that's where she'll get her drive.
"I can be as full of lust as their dreams," she thinks to herself-
Ignoring the guy down the block who tells her she's "got a doll of a body, but the face of a horse.
Except for her lips- any day of the week those would be sweet."

It's girls like her that make me sick, living and killing themselves off what the boys call sweet.
Just pucker up and try to make yourself look jolly-
if you offer him enough of a taste- he'll forget your voice is hoarse
from all the smoke you ****. It'll work even better if you don't talk at all and just get lewd.
"This will make him love me at last" she always tells herself-
But when he's got his fill all he really ever wants is to get away and drive.

It's funny the way it always goes, he drives
into her soon as soon as he makes her feel a little sweet,
then runs off soon as she looks more like herself
and the lures wear off. Funny how the morning after does that. Maybe the next guy, maybe a Joe or Lee,
might finally like her all around, even if she doesn't strut her wares ****.
But probably... actually, most likely, not, it usually always goes the same for ******

like her. So she'll just keep 'dolling' herself up as she hoards
away her list of mates. Maybe, though, the next one might take her on a nice drive.
Yeah, he'll take her somewhere nice and new.
"Don't feel so used," she thinks "see, this guy is truly sweet."
And she just hopes this Joe is nothing like Lee,
That last man who ****** her dry while she forgot herself.

Still, the rest of us just watch as she lets herself
go downhill, pretty typical, just like most other ******.
She really might stick with Joe,
for awhile anyways, but even if he cares for her, she'll be the one to drive
him away, why follow him up if she's still running down? She'll find the next one to sweet-
talk her into bed and into the draining ****.

Her story will always be the same- A new
den to sleep in with each new guy, she treats herself
to the good life she says, nothing wrong with that, while her partially sweet
looks keep falling farther back to being kicked by a horse.
And from my once close friend, I'll drive
further away, I'm too sick of her plump-lipped stories about what's-his-name? Joe or Lee...

Yeah, sure, she might show you her snapshot-nudes, she really thinks she's comparable to Angelina Jolie,
But she's not sure of herself at all, she's not all that sweet.
For all of her promises and lures, I promise, she's really just a dried up *****.

The truth ran free-
                       I'm sorry,
I'm not saying we'll meet again

Never dream of the edge of death-
                       I'll always forget regretting the story.
My life lives me.