lay numb in the snow
gazing at your future home
waiting for release

feeling claustrophobic in isolation,
and like the lone survivor in crowds,
you can't sleep naturally at night,
you need medication to drown out your thoughts that bring sorrowful sounds.

in your ears ring those melodies of realism,
that sing solely of failure and defeat,
these songs written with melancholy chords,
that only seem to loop and repeat.

the process so dehumanizing,
you can't progress through the morbid cycle anymore,
so you press a barrel to the roof of your mouth, as stress neatly lines up and files out the door.

cold metal had never tasted so sweet,
and in these final moments, part of your cement core splits,
rainwater finally leaks in and your thirst is quenched as it fills your lonely heart, the desolate desert ditch.
feeling something real for the first time since who knows when,
only at this time, the moment of your end.

however, in your death your depression becomes recycled,
and now the numbing blanket will be passed to another,
until the day someone strong enough possesses it,
so it can be burned above amber flames, resting in ash along with its true color,
*black.

gravity keeps me planted next to you
i love gravity

gazing out at the waves as they flow
beneath the sky that reflects its hue
not a cloud in the sky
the world painted in deep blue
from figure to ground the quintessence of beauty
the purest form of tranquility
and in this moment i feel immortal
like i can flow just as easy with the waves
so you can see my face when you look up at the sky on a day at the beach
i let go
and i greet the floor of sand in peace
final words bubbles, that only the ocean can repeat

the numb can't fall in love with another
only with the thought of being in it
they'll convince themselves they're thawed
until depression outruns denial
when they grow angry at themselves for being unable to feel
then they'll return with slumped shoulders to their cavern of ice
where their tears freeze along with their hope
to wait until they can lie to themselves again
taking one foot out into the sun
and leaving the other in the snow

leaping cliff to earth
the woeful job of pavement
catching troubled souls

in the coming months the frost will pass
leaving green blades visible and new formed dirt paths
daisies and orchids will rise beneath heaven's light
but you, the wallflower, will wilt like its still winter, crippled in dismal fright
the fear of remaining alone
the fear of not knowing when you will become like the proud flowers that stand vibrant and grown
but as spring turns to summer and the clouds disappear
the wind will pick up, and send another wallflower's pedals through the air
so poor wallflower, do not fret
your roots have the strength of 1000 roses
the kind of beauty that could be carved into statuette  
you will survive when there is no rain
because you understand loneliness and unprecedented pain
so stay calm, oh wavering friend
water will still seep through your timid veins
and your brilliance will shine, even if its tangled in your inhibited chains

my brush touches on canvas
with each whipping flick, a new stroke around the curvature of your smile
i paint in shades of black, white, and gray
yet nothing gives off more color than the radiance of your joy

and nothing makes me prouder to be alive
than the moment I've made you split the creases of your cherry blossom lips
and reveal teeth as white as the clouds where you must originally be from

high up above this area of space plagued by the formulaic symmetry between conformists
those who greet the sun in the morning with the intention just to get by
no my love, you wake each sunrise with a far greater purpose
and i wake to share a piece of it with you
so we can smile together
and feel high enough to be perched on a crescent moon
as I hold you close, and point out the brilliant star you descended from

I've grown blind to sensation
and deaf to the hums of my walk
its all the same yet again
one great big pile of gray sloshy snow
suspended under an equally flavorless sky
whose clouds pour drips of cool touch onto me
and as they land and stream along the contours and creases of my face
they soak up with my hurt
and that feeling is the only thing that keeps me thinking im still here,
still alive
so please sky, let it rain
let it shower away all of my pain
let it pump my blood to sizzle against the icicles that hang beneath the gutters of my veins
to melt away the current solid stream of red
so i can defrost back into my old self
as steam rises from my now beating heart
revealing gears that rotate freely again once their bolts are no longer consumed in deep frost
the color rushes back into my skin
and the flushed pale face suddenly evolves into crimson cheeks which hold an obnoxiously wide smile
with a voice that speaks loud like a lion with purpose
and sings harmonious with the songs of my youth
...
the day i am resurrected
is the day i will love you like i intend
so tell me, please reveal your secret
where can I melt?

my father left on a Thursday
and we buried him on a Sunday
i'd never witnessed an earth so dull
the colors didn't explode and combust
the music didn't serenade and echo
no,
the clouds just poured and poured and poured again
mother said the angels were crying because they didn't want him this soon
their tears fell through the crevasses of a black sky
and my life became a silent film
my eyes could only see tones of grey
and as i removed my small hand from an oversized coat that belonged to him
i held onto the cherry wood of a coffin
i looked into it to see the black and white reflection of a small boy whose sadness could not be defined

and a decade later on Sunday the 8th of the bitter cold month of February
i wake up with colorless vision
and become deaf for the day
i revisit your grave
and the other mourners look on at me
a little child transformed once again
weeping in the warmth of a jacket that only seems to grow larger with time
and the angels can't help but to cry again
their pain reverberates throughout the field of death that appears to have no definite end
i peer over the gray hill of gray tombstones
and my eyes glaze over with a sheet of liquid melancholy
because i realize everyone has their own February the 8th