I had a dream a while ago in which I shattered to pieces
my porcelain feelings screaming, as my fragile being, my ego
careened into the abrasive floors of a street. My chest became
my cremation chamber when your eyes stabbed instead of kissed
me, charring my skies and calcifying my heart until it crumbled
in defeat.
You left me in this dream; and I became an orphaned soldier,
because your arms have a way of sailing me home, and I
was left stranded with my cheek to the dirt
they're
the entrancing warmth I feel as I open the entrance door after
what feels like a montage  , surgically patching my broken days
into weeks and months, but every patch is the same **** color
every patch the burial ground of scattered death
dirt
tears
dirt
have you ever slept with a quilt so dull it's covers disown you
under it's hollow body?
It's difficult to describe to you verbally the intensity of
what I feel for you, my volubility vulnerable to flaws in the
jaws of inexperience and tangled in destiny's hair, but I can
say I choke under the heavy smoke of my ignorant mistakes,
I cry for you, your pain, I wish I could steal it and make it
my own but it seems that too is a dream.