one: i love the sun and light and the smell of dewy grass. i've lost my taste for the dark.
two: my love for the darkness has turned into but a simple appreciation for i cannot love something where i know monsters lurk.
three: you are one of those lurking monsters.
four: i'd rather get high than hear you speak. the burn of the smoke as it chases and then caresses my lungs and the heavy exhale that follows is the only conversation i need because drug consumption is more important to me than my life being consumed by you.
five: i love myself now.
six: i do not need danger like i did when i was a juvenile. danger is an art i have never perfected.
seven: you never loved me.
eight: i learned long ago that the purple tulips you planted under my skin were not your way of saying i love you but they were instead your way of proving your dominance.
nine: i do not like being dominated.
five: i love myself now.
five: i love myself now.
five: i love myself now.
seven: you never loved me.
ten: you lurk in the shadows in my room. even though i do not want to be with you now you stay with me but that's not any different considering you never cared what i wanted.
five: i love myself now.

They say,
old habits die hard.
Don't I know it.
I put down the bottle for a while,
picked it back up.
Older now, more refined.
Bourbon,
instead of the cheap rot gut,
of my youth.
It all kills you in the end.
Still can't go out in public.
Teeth grinding,
Who's the enemy?
Who's the snake in this crowd?
Do I have my weapon?
Constantly clutching leather bound steel,
haven't needed the blade,
in a long time,
but must always be ready.
Marlb menthols,
pack a day, at least.
Smoke one to take the edge off,
there's always an edge.
Serial monogamist,
constantly striving for love,
hopeless romantic.
Hopelessly falling for women so venomous,
they could teach vipers,
a thing or two.
Picked up
a couple new ones but,
the old habits die hard

Once I had a garden,
built to spite my constant gloom.
I planted hope and happiness,
those seeds will never bloom.
I had hoped that all the rain,
would see the ground be rich.
But it seems my little cloud
has only proven to restrict.
Now within my garden,
but one lonely flower grows.
The oddest rose I've ever seen,
with petals made of bones.

Words are now
as if
I never wrote

gather as an aching
lump in my throat.

They don't seek paper
only a river
to pour and mingle
in refrains of a dumb sadness
flow away
sunburned and tidewashed
to where the river is widest
deepest with sighs
of life not enough
in once only
and when just begun
ending broken on the shore.

Look up from the darkness
see a beautiful World
and you its crowning glory!