Break off from the pack,
Away from those who’ll seek to hold you back.
Put it all on the line
A life lived without risks
is not a life of mine.

Sever the ties.
Forget your past.
All the times you tried
but you failed so hard.
Give it all you got,
that’s why you have a heart.

Don’t run with the wolves.
Just be your own man.
Just do better as best you can.
You’ll live, you’ll breathe, you’ll die, you’re ******.
Your sand is running out.
Your ******* time is up.

We’re wasting the only chance that we will ever get.
When death comes, he’ll find me living a life of no regrets.

If I could sing
You'd throw me back
Say I'm not a keeper
Cuz I can't sing
Your song anyhow.

But if I could
I'd be singing
Something sweeter
To make you cling
To me...all day long.

If I could sing
You'd throw me away
Call me a dreamer
And there's not a thing
I could say to say you're wrong.

When I sing
Toss me into your river
Cuz I'm a dreaming swimmer
I could swim in your water
All night long.

r ~ 5/4/14

Loneliness is a hunger
That eats at my hands
At the vacant spaces between my fingers
Devouring the place on my chest
Reserved for your cheek

It mocks
As it consumes

And I'm left
Empty enough to echo

she wrote about love,
as if she'd experienced it.
in truth, all she knew
about love came from
Neruda and Yeats and
Nicolas Sparks. the
only love in her life
was the unrequited
kind, but she wrote
about the loves that
lasted, or faded, or
blossomed, as if she'd
ever seen it happen,
and wondered if any
of the poets she so
admired had written
about fiction, or if
they wrote love as
they felt it -- but then,
who, happily in love,
has time for sonnets?
who writes, unless
for the vain belief
that words can fill
a void?