Look forward, my sweet
Climb up the mast and
Look forward
A turning point
A precipice
Steel yourself
And do not stop
Please, just this once
Only look forward, my sweet

don't touch me
I'll take your name and tie the ribbon around my eyes
don't call me
I'll make your hands the collar around my neck
take heed and
give me nothing
for I will make you my everything

if I could hold my breath
and become the spackle on the wall

I would

if I could paint myself into the background noise

I would

yet somehow
sans any concurrence
I am dragged into the spotlight
notions of wonder and gold dancing beyond my eyelids

I'm told I'll be glitter and gold and all things good
but to hang as a portrait on the wall

aye, I would.

when did your eyes stop glittering
like the stars did when I point them out every night
like the hope that sits with her net of dust on the shelf to the left
after a while
I haven't a clue how to fill this role anymore
how many seashells should I bring to show you before you finally decide to leave?

like the tides
I push and pull,
scream and shout,
my strength washes ashore,
shining in the sun,
glistening amongst the rocks
grab it,
quickly now
before the tide comes back in to wash this beach clean
hurry now
before the current carries it away
never knowing where it might wash up again.

But what defines it?
Are there rules?
Who started them?
Most of all, is it real?
Is there really a reason?
Or, is this just like everything else?

do fires kiss my skin's senses not when I should be kept back at a spines distance
not when I solicit crimson splashes
from transients that gaze longingly
from a screens distance
but for the aftertaste of tenderness
I often wonder if the inferno that burns in a particular shade of loneliness
could be extinguished with nothing more
than what you call a "hug"

your hands are gone
misplaced by rendevouz
that swallow the entire night in their embrace
is that why
my skin bleeds honey
and my bones become a barrier
as the hills of my body are contouring around another
is that why
when their vines constrict me
I am reminded yet again
that you had just been
a temporary tattoo

a touch that once grazed the topography of my face
the valleys of my chest
secured the locks that kept my secrets
the same touch that now taps past pixels of my presence
in an effort to erase what once was
as quickly as it came
do you ask it
if it remembers?

I have sat here
watching the sun
each ray warming my stone
day after day
I have sat here
a constant to some
I didn't know it was there to others
I have sat here
wondering why I am
wishing for the end
praying for the beginning
cursing for my demise to be swift
I have sat here
waiting to die
for so long
that I have forgotten how to live

there is a box of pills under my bed
each one labeled something unpronounceable
and yet
amongst all these bottles
I haven't yet been prescribed reassurance.

but is it
if I add to the weight of the world
that someome built on your shoulders,
the stars whisper sternly
when the language I speak
translates incorrectly
due to a metronome that's been off-beat for centuries,
I beg my creator
for His cruel hands
shaped a pitcher out of a sieve
and i will lay,
spilled.

the demon that sits in my throat
his voice rumbling in my head
and my eyes
his horns are in my chest
twisting with every breath
his tongue whispering in my ears
kisses cold along my neck
clawing deep into my hips
a grip I cannot escape
God help me, I choke past him
"My sweet, he left you on that cold winter's conception."
my skin grows cold and clammy
my eyes weak and heavy
I am not me in this body
for there is a demon who sits in my throat.

I see you in every woman I meet.
In the hair of one, the hands of another
I was praying for you last nights
and
I want you to be your best selfs
but those are words that are foreign in your mouth.
you're still here, nested in my crows feet
behind the double pane, snickering just past my cheekbones
I heard
you
her


oh.

lagoons deep with their waters a murky verdigris
a thousand sunsets had set and sailed
the trees and their emeralds glistening from storms past
a head amongst flowers, resting in their pastel bunches, peering up at the whisps of clouds smearing the sky
how long can I stay in this dream, how long before it disappears like everything once before it.

when you press my keys
and pluck my strings
when you compose your song
don't ignore the drum in my chest
she's the conductor anyway.

in my father's home
tucked into a closet
stands a lovely doll
a dress that spilled over the edge of the armoire that she perched upon
dimming light cast a soft twinkle in her eyes,
a shimmer in her hair
I yearned to be like her
until her façade cracked
and she looked like me

the voice in my head isn't mine and I don't like her very much
sometimes she says things of value
but most of the time she makes me hoard things that aren't good for me
I'm afraid she's making making me sicker
someday, maybe, I'll be louder than her

i wish it were obvious
that I treat my car the way I treat myself
because we're both so busy
running everywherre
always out of time.

My soda went flat in its bottle
It tasted like the air, sticky and thick
The heat from the lighter only added to the warmth of the night
A chorus of cars driving past
Joined by the cacophony of a too full balcony
Muffled shouts from the interior
Garlic wafting up through the windows
aimlessly scrolling
This times like these
I'm reminded what home is

My name sounds so pretty on your lips
I'm begging you
We have all the time in the world
So I don't think you'd mind
If I stole one more
Just for the road
Just to get me home
Just so you know
That I need you to catch me

Surely you heard
The stream babbling about us
The trees whispering amongst the wind
And the leaves crunching under our careful steps
The squirrels and turtles
Veering everyone away from us
I'll be sure to play this cassette back

Perhaps
The gentle sigh of the wind in the trees
The giggle of the mermaids that live in the stream
The happy and casual conversation between birds floating high above
Every rock's jagged surface, laced with soft moss and dew
And bittersweet candy that lingers on my lips and fingers
Perhaps
These are good things.

I wonder quite often
If it's like feeling sunshine on your arms and legs
After being slowly frozen
While being taught white history
If it's like putting on traditional clothes
And strutting proudly around town
If it's like cool water
Tickling your scalp
After this week's hottest day of the century
Is it the feeling you get when you've finally got new tires
And 65 down the toll road late at night
Feels just as smooth as the bass rumbling in your spine
Is it the same as letting go of someone
Who didn't understand
You needed a much bigger ***
So you could really bloom into the flower you knew you were
Perhaps one day I'll know
Till then, I have to be home by 9.

I catch you again
What are you memorizing?
Don't fret, I am too.

They made me worry about quicksand a lot as a kid.
Giving me little bits of advice to keep in mind:
Don't move too much you'll go down faster!
If you're stuck just hold onto something!
As if it really was an all too common problem in the stale suburbs.
But I realize now quicksand isn't just one thing. It has many different names.
Don't let it swallow you up!
Just ask for help!
How do I do that?
I tried to hang on and not let it consume me,
But here I am, drowning in quicksand.

I've left some soft peaches on the table.
Sticky sweet, flesh soft and yellow
Blue red, pink hues
and whispers of golden praises
The summer heat pressing ghostly kisses on my eyelids
I want to get lost in you.
No map will lead to this treasure
But I've left some peaches on the table.

Oh that?
That's been there.
It's old.
Forgotten.
Like those boxes in the back of my closet.
My body burns when you touch them.
Scorching and staining my flesh
I feel
Defective.

Warm covers and familiar crashes and thuds
The orchestra of this house.
Why does it feel foreign?

I sewed myself back together
Or so I thought.
I picked up every piece and threaded my needle
Sat and worked till the moon disappeared again.
And every day I sailed
Every shore I kissed
Tore my delicate lines
Here I find myself once again
Tattered and wheezing
I'll have to buy new thread then.
I can't salvage all the pieces this time either
Some of them don't fit anymore.
I guess I'll have to find new ones.

i was a canvas
with all of my colors, i ask
what have you painted?

Why was it
I'd just written a perfect screenplay
So I looked up to deliver my final line for the night
That when I saw you
My computer crashed