You can feel the pain of life
cutting deep inside of you,
When you are out there swimming
On the edge of who you are.

You can see a mystic glow
That captures your attention,
Just before you find yourself
Abandoned in the dark.

You can taste the bitterness
Of loosing to the the universe,
Meditating on the sad things
That have made you who you are.

You can hear the hollow breath
That comes from deep within
Your chest as it it heaving,
When you don't know where you are.

You can smell the pheromones
And want to enter paradise
Of the intoxicating lifeforce;
Libidinous and stark.

Lack of

        inspiration


    dedication


                  perhaps everything is


         just caged within.



                        Hard as I try,
  
         wishing to write




    

                but,



         not tomorrow





                              not tonight.

I've been giving my Hit Points away in exhange for a cheat that will grant me invulnerability.

Despite any number of smoke screens;
of lofty promises and unobtainable dreams,
we'll always have that one thing we believe in.

In the event of unknown nights
spent drowning ourselves beneath the weight of our plight,
we'll always be able to find our way back.

In case we crack and get lost in the creases,
we'll have each other to pick up the pieces,
and rebuild them better than the way they once were.

You and me,
carrying on the light.
We can make it together.

I'll never again fear inclement weather,
for I've found a port in the storm.
You give me the strength to row this boat,
and a hope to row it toward.

Have you ever regretted a decision before you've made it?
I'm sure there's a medical condition named for it.
I forget what it is.

Do you know that saying that goes:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me?"
Of course you do -
everyone does.
Well, as far as I can tell,
poets feel the opposite.

There's something frightening in you,
and I've always been attracted to the things that scare me most.
I guess you could call it a counterphobic attitude.

Just as all these words are meant for ghosts.

But I'm sick of the sound of crunched eggshells,
and the elephant in the room leaves me crowded.

So hand me that broom;
this dust is being swept under the carpet.

I don't want to turn you into my confessor,
but I'm quickly becoming obsessed with telling you my thoughts.
Too much honesty can get everything *******,
and my heart's already in knots.