With every deliberate thought, I find myself to be self-destructive
Where I should be progressive or productive, I yearn for your memory
Some might assume that this habit is a sign, but the sign’s message seems to be “CAUTION” or “DANGER”
Yet it doesn’t seem pertinent to worry my troubled heart over the sentiments of any stranger
Heavy sighs and idle expressions, the shelter of my bed being my vehicle for this ride of depression
There must be something more than this hollow feeling, a goal or a motivation to press forward
What becomes of a man when he loses his heart, for it would be an absolute waste to let the mind and body lie dormant
Through emptiness and weariness, one may reach a point where they grow tired of being tired
To be tired of being something, then tired of being nothing, and then tired of being incomplete

The blurred visage of a transitioning landscape,
The clammer and clack of the iron horse’s speedy march,
The whirring and monstrous surprise of an urgent adjacent train,
Creaks and screeches of metals colliding constantly,
A continuous drone of the air-conditioning apparatus,
Firm seats that provide minor comfort in their unattractive red and tan leather,
A faux cheery ticket collector whose presence assures authority,
Mild artificial lights which illuminate a quiet scene,
Innumerable strangers with stories all their own,
A commute to start and end my day,
The transition, silent and dreary, yet entirely necessary
From a sleepy little town to a city without slumber,
To enjoy the restlessness of a city with an identity of its own
Or be complacent and relaxed in a town with a name unknown
Both are appreciable, but the journey truly serves to emphasize their great qualities

It's times like these I wish you could see me work so I could stare at that smile that I love so dearly, but it's alright that you can't be here since I know you're busy and besides, I can still envision your image so clearly.
It started with that smile, those gleaming teeth which sought to keep me infatuated for a while.  
Then it moved on to your eyes, the twinkling sapphire treasures which cannot escape my visage despite so many tries.
Slowly it became your face, with every glance it was quite apparent that your looks were blessed with every charm and grace.
My brush quickly moved onto your gracious golden locks of hair, untamed yet silky and unbelievably fair.
Next it came to include your neck, coupled with your head it would be a wondrous bust perfectly chiseled and shined to be free of any blemishing speck .
Outlining your ******* and your shoulders, you'd be mistaken for the fair Helen whose famed looks were fought over between Greek and Troy soldiers.
Brushing in your stomach and hips, the beauty of your image arouses and I cannot stop the involuntary quiver of my lips.
Strokes which create in my composition your arms and your hands, there's an unveiling of beauty like winds uncovering a pyramid hidden in the sands.
I pay special attention to drawing in your well- formed thighs, your slender legs, capturing the natural attractiveness of your delicate feet; myself as the artist witnessing the creation of a masterpiece ready to be unveiled to the world, and for myself reserved the very best seat.
A deep breath, a last stroke, a moment to regain composure.
My heart a drum, my hands made of cement, my eyes shutters that won't open, and my mind not ready for closure.
The thought of you is unbearable, I'm in a panic and I dip my brush in the darkest shade of red.
Enlightened by your love yet scarred by your memory, doting upon all the questions unanswered and the words I should have said.
Nights like these, where my body is limp and my head becomes heavy with fear and dread.
I slash this blood red across you with tears in my eyes and a delirium to submit to.
It's times like these I wish you weren't dead.

Boy oh boy, another cold night!
Another cold night under my room's dimly lit light.
Another cold night under a dimly lit light to embark on a poorly planned plight.
Another cold night under a dimly lit light to lose sight of my poorly planned plight.
Another cold night under a dimly lit light to lose sight of my poorly planned plight but perhaps such circumstances are right.
The chances are slight on this chilly autumn night where my poorly planned plight is to sit down and write.
Write about what on this chilly autumn night? Well that's where I lost sight of the poorly planned plight.

Gentle wind rolling
Sunlight dancing on the green
silent bliss outside

The question remains
Of all perplexing notions
who let the dogs out?