"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

I am utterly and totally (not limited to completely) dazed and confused in a dark alley of emotions in the midsection of an endless tunnel that leads to possibilities of the unknown. I have already made my choice; I have already chosen my path miles back, and I have traveled long enough to know that I am in far too deep to change my mind. I touch the walls for a message from the blind but even they can't lead me. And so with no other choice but to step forward into the vast night, I pray on the Lord to comfort me and to guide me, in hopes  that the demons within my own soul may never find me. And when all is said and done I hope I can find my way back into what I know, back into what feels right; back into the light.

we all do it at some point
our skies darken
our face fall
our sunsets end
we become adults
our parents become equals
our stress levels rise
our blues become grays
we lose what we once had

He doesn't like to skip pages
- I'll try to abide.
People like to talk,
- in books, I confide.
I wonder if this is legible,
or too riddled with pride.

I think I am
falling in love
with myself
again.

We see words lined up pretty,
spelling out sorrow.
Like beautiful crying ladies
we want to help
but also want to touch.
I never know when or how
to express that I am here for a poet.
Love, is it ever just a poem to you?
Or do you actually mean to slit your wrists?
Is writing the only way you escape?
Should I stop and whisper empathy
or should we just continue
to admire
each other's talent?