I don't think you realize the effect you're having on me.
I'm catching myself doing things differently in the hopes that you'll notice me.
I'm diving head first into rose bushes to pick you a flower.
I'm turning back all the clocks in my house so you'll stay for just one more hour.
I'm listening to every love song in reverse in search of a missing verse.
The mere utterance of your name has become my curse.
Reminding me, that at this moment, I am not next to you.

You.

I would define you as angelic, but the gods above bow before you in reverence.
Any semblance of beauty in the world must be reassessed.
The meaning of the word must be redefined.
I'll happily go blind if it means keeping the image of you burning in my mind.
Thoughts swirling in my head ignite the passion that now burns like wildfire.
Scorching every fact, theory and opinion I've ever had
until all that is left is you.

You.

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
It used to be my parents when I would fall.
Lacking the strength or knowledge to stand on my own,
they would lead me
teach me
support this insecure child.

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
A shot of *******, another sip of alcohol.
Liquid courage to face the day,
flexing my beer muscles for the ladies
my true self atrophied from years of inactivity.

I've been using crutches ever since I was small.
With my crutches gone, it's time for me to stand tall.
I've worn out every crutch
under the ballooning weight of my insecurity
and now with wobbly legs and unsure steps,
I must learn to stand on my own.

Do not speak highly of me when I die,
we know the words aren't true.
I cheated.
I lied.
I made too many women cry.
I drank
and crashed my car a few times because of it.
I smoked cigarettes
and didn't brush my teeth enough.
I stole once
which I was never proud of.
I said nasty things
to very nice people
and I didn't do enough to help
those who were in need.
Please, my friend,
do not speak highly of me when I die.

Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.

Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.

Good Morning America
Act Now!
For today the price is right.
Our American idols have been conveniently portioned and pre-packaged for your enjoyment.
The wheels of fortune have turned in our favor,
laying us down in our warm beds of satisfaction.
Dreaming of the X-factor that will give us our
fifteen minutes

A girl,
no more than sixteen
and pregnant
strives to be a top model.
Overexposed and underdeveloped
barely able to read or write,
she is paraded in front of a camera and lights.
And the studio exec will keep cuttin' those paychecks
as long as you keep tuning in for another
fifteen minutes

The education can wait until the spotlight fades
who needs class mates when you got fans,
as long as those lights keep flashing on your fame, you got another
fifteen minutes

Sparked thoughts of embracing you upon sheets of white.
Your orange-red hair highlighting
smoky green eyes that follow
invisible trails of perfume as it floats across the room.
The taste of your beauty lingering with the completion of each kiss.
Silently putting me at ease.

I've called this ghost town home for far too long.
Spent my nights drinking with the dead.
Each sip cementing their existence in my head.
Listlessly taking shot after shot.
Whiskey,
the water of life,
commemorates the spirit of the deceased.
One
for those who passed away in peace.
Two
for those taken prematurely.
Toast number three shall be a farewell to me
but I am not ready to no longer
be.

You see,
if I were to dream eternally
and sink deeper down the fiery well,
those infamous nine levels of hell,
I would forge fresh footprints through the ash covered ground.
Walking with boots of compressed gunpowder,
the trail I leave behind is always primed to catch up with me and
spark the time bomb I walk with.
The seconds
tick
tick
tick
away.
The clock is always heading toward zero.
I tried to be a hero for many,
yet couldn't save myself.
My desires put upon a shelf.
A self inflicted penance handed down from the only one
I was foolish enough to call
god.
I am too far gone to be saved.
Grave stones mark the decay of my hopes and dreams.
The etchings on each marble tablet will eventually fade away.
The soil I am to be buried in must be overturned if anything is
to grow where I could not.
Mother nature always finds a way to nurture even the worst of her children.
Like any good matriarch, she refuses to accept anything less than her child's full potential.
Even in death.
Though I refused nourishment and love,
mother earth still holds me close.
Embraces me in a final attempt to squeeze the last drops of good which
were buried deep and thought to be dried long ago.

Ignoring her guidance, I've lived as if I would never end up six feet.
Deep were my thoughts,
dangerous my actions.
Though I lived as if I couldn't be defeated,
my first true test comes as I fight for control of my soul.
Angels and devils are now my judges,
each making their case for my demise.
The scales of destiny weigh my past actions.
The outcome holding my future.

So I'll fill my glass one final time,
and toast to those who left before me.
I'm coming home.

Good morning, my friend.
As we awake to another beautiful sunrise,
your eyes radiate the burning star of your soul and
shine upon the cold moon of my heart,
allowing you to see me as I truly am;
A simple mixture of water, rock and minerals,
working in perfect balance to float through the empty vacuum of this space.
Your light shines upon my imperfections,
laying them bare.
The warm glow of your rays has sprouted life
in this barren landscape.
I yearn for your gravitational pull.
If my inching towards you throws the solar system out of alignment,
then I will stay close by as we watch the planets collide and
the milky way melt into shooting stars,
nourishing the primitive life forms that grow inside me until a
new ecosystem sprouts from the combined forces of our energy.

Good morning, my friend.
Thank you for your sunshine.

It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.

Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.

Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.

**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.

I still remember the time you hit me.
I should have realized how much you cared.
Fearing the impending destruction of our relationship
I rushed to build a wall to protect myself.
Your fist crashed into my temple
Like a hurricane tossing a flurry of waves along the beach,
Taking a little of me every time you pull away.

I won't say you were wrong.
I went against your grain for so long
That eventually you splintered.
And now I find myself digging the slivers of you
From my memory.
Stinging reminders of what we had.

Taffy stretched streaks of color in the sky
Propping up cotton candy clouds
That pour lemon rain drops
upon lollipop trees
and fill syrupy rivers
that overflow onto sugary shores.

It was along that riverbank that I first saw her.  Ignoring my presence, she gazed quizzically into that river, silently counting each ripple in the water, and with only a few hours of sunlight left,
to quit now would make her day a waste.  
You see, she had this theory that if you time it right, a person could dodge every wave and submerged stone on their way upstream.  
When I asked her, "Why not just float downstream?", she responded simply,
"Because everyone goes that way".