It's a never-ending story that I get to tell
A redundant allegory that never gets to sell
A promise of forever that barely lasts a week
Promises are made but impossible to keep

Can you come back one last time,
Before you retreat into my mind

I listen to every word that you try to spin
Stop lying, little lover, I know this has to end
But give me a chance to leave a little mark
I'll set it on fire but I won't hit too hard

Find us a place and I'll be on my way
A place we'll remember to bring another some other day
I'd ask you to be quiet but I can't turn you off
You can touch the tower but make sure you do it soft

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

sometimes I wonder
what life would be like
without him here,

but then I know
that there would be
no life

only death.

he is the air
that filters through
my lungs

he is the sun
that makes me
shine

he is the supplier
of my never-ending
happiness

without him,
there is no life

only death

*a.m.

I haven’t a gun.
I’ve hit no one.
A failure of great proportions,
Emotional extortions,
And mental abortions.

This world is more cold than not.
How is my heart not to willow and rot?
Every word I hear
Each one that passes through my ear,
I can’t help but not to feel fear.

Fear for all of that which I do not have.
The only option is to halve
My soul into two.
Even then it would have been too few.
Oh God, what do I do?

I must find the answer!
And relieve myself of this growing cancer.
“Who are you?” you may ask,
I’ll say nothing, all the talking will be done by my mask.

and then I asked you,
"What's your biggest fear?"

you gave me a quivering sigh,
looked at me straight in the eyes
and said,

"It's that eventually, you will see me
the way I see myself."

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.

This is it.
My ending.
My epitaph.
I am exhausted.
I have explored every idea I wanted to explore.
I have told the stories I have wanted to tell.
My imagination has been stretched to its very limits.
It's time to call it a day.

For now.

Perhaps, someday, I may return.
To write a second chapter.
A new beginning.
Perhaps.

Until then, farewell.

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