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Sipping the air slowly
to savor the flavor;
rich with fertility
Leaves bursting into fiery hues
reminiscent of fireworks
trembling in the wind

A death knell
over green sceneries;
splotches of sunlight
seeping seamlessly between
newly naked branches,
easing fully unto checkered golden pools–
nature at its most beautiful,
before its most barren
L.
drenched in blue moonlight 
I admired her through
the sheet of smoke
in the gap between us

Carefully I
swayed and our arms
greeted with a gentle graze


"I tend to see the glass as half empty–
sometimes completely."

Sudden words drew me
like water from a well

A cigarette pinched by
the uneven crescents of her lips
pulsated, her sallow face
awash in a delicious red glow

"Either way, it's a beautiful glass,
isn't it?"

time nonexistent
She fumbled another
to a faintly open mouth
I lit it in silence
Waves painted the hull teal
the Sun colored in my skin,
while wind brushed strokes against my cheek

Water, tinged with foam and salt,
splashed my face
I woke up;
there were tears on the pillow
dreams
A rare night indeed,
when I find my whole world aflame,
with the light of life
and of love.
All the more noticeable
for my exit from the shadows.
All the more appreciated
for a life spent in the dark.
I miss you,
when the wind flows like music
through the trees.
And I hear it as I once did your laughter.
I miss you,
when the sun sets
and I see it as I once did your smile
beneath your now sorrowed eyes.
I miss you,
when the stars hang high
and I find myself cold and alone in the dark,
for lack of your warmth.
But I miss you most at night,
when I wake up in an empty bed
searching for what's not there.
You do not piece back together
shattered glass,
you sweep.
I know,
I know there lies no answer
in the bottom of this glass.
On occasion though,
it certainly kills the question.
And yes I know,
this glass holds no peace,
but it certainly makes telling yourself,
you've found as much
a little easier.
And yes,
yes I know.
The glass holds little more than a slight reprieve
from self loathing,
from guilt,
from the colossal weight upon my shoulders.
But it seems you,
and hope,
are always gone.
And the glass is always here.
I was once asked
"where is home,
if not your house?"
My heart wanted to say
"wherever there is love,
and trust, brother."
My brain urged otherwise,
and so my response was only
"wherever you lay your head,
that night"
To watch a man,
attempt the washing of blood
long since spilled,
upon his hands.
Is to watch an agony I cannot describe.
How do you see yourself
when in the mirror,
there is a monster?
When in the shine of your children's eyes,
you see only reflected
a murderer?
Where do you find joy,
in life?
When you wish perhaps,
you'd been not so "lucky."
I'll always have the vague desire,
that someone will catch my work
and help it really get somewhere.
Then I remember,
I write drunk
and ****** up
at three in the morning.
"Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning"
right?
I'll just be content,
with writing for the drunks,
and the drug addicts,
and the sleepless.
I try to tell myself maybe,
that's who really needs it anyway.
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