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Harmonic footprints
we stroll hand in hand

Seashells and heartbeats
alone on the sand

Ocean breeze whispers
and sandcastle dreams

Twilight concertos in
shimmered moon beams

Slumbered horizons,
a slow lullaby

Stars made for wishing
now sing to the sky

Melodic waves
softly kissing the shore

Here on this beach
I could not love you more
Sickness listens to us sigh.
Sniggering snidely as we die.
Seeking our soul as we comply.

But still I live
And yet I am not alive.
The internal pain
Has struck me again.
Turning me blue
Hating everything I do.
Taking me down
Hearing me drown.

But **** it,
I will never submit.
Tom
I long to be between thy skin. Lust and desire are beyond my sense.

Just in case
you take a peek
to see what I
did write

It's once again
"I love you"
upon this page
of white

And if per chance
you stay a while
in hopes of
reading more

Let me use
this final verse
to say
you I adore


Hello,
is this thing on?
(tap, tap, tap)
Testing 1, 2, 3 . . .
Hello . . . Hello Poetry,
is this thing working?
Hello
for Richard, the boy who narrated life*

Today, leaves are falling.
“One day Aaron will watch the falling leaves.”
The first day of school arrives.  
“One day Champ’s mom will take him to school.”

Life is the story of life, says the narrator.

Life expands. The story lengthens.
The intertwined threads begin to pull apart.

Life is surface and sheen,
laughter, tears, opaque signs.
The story strains after fictive frames,
the hero’s epiphany, the villain’s inner pain,
and undreamt creatures beyond human sense.

And so myth and magic
give form to stories
that we no longer star in.  
New worlds take shape
where the story creates its own life,
an escape from "the shock of recognition."

In time the threads converge again.  
Life’s pattern breaks and needs a new plot.
The stories yield their human meaning—
maybe we were in them all along.

The story ends and life goes on.
Life ends and the story goes on.
"The shock of recognition" is a phrase that I have lifted from an essay by Herman Melville.
It's the eyes,
they always tell a story
Even in the darkest times,
the eyes hold pride and glory
When they're empty
there are plenty
As the lonely
seem to stick around

I do see smiles,
I can hear laughs
Yet it's the eyes
that always cry
They carry a weight
in bags, a trait
I always say
is not evidence that
I'm tired

If I'm not wrong,
eyes don't belong
on your head
forever exposed

Forever exposed
to all of those
who seek to
figure you out

Although I'm glad,
they are my weakness
Many I've seen
could have been
less than signs of kindness
Understanding why
we lose that light in our eye
was never an ambition of mine
I love you
Three words that don't tell it how it is
I more than love you
I want you,
Need you,
Have you,
Feel you,
Miss you,
Fear you,
See you,
Hear you,
Kiss you,
Adore you,
Taste you,
Breathe you,
I more than love you
I worship you
As my friend
As my lover
As the ruler of my heart
You are all good things
Yet you're like no other
I would kiss the ground
Your feet have walked on
Then I'd kiss them too
Not to prove I'm worthy
Just because I enjoy the sensations
Of trying new things with you

Time with you is a commodity
Much easier to part with
I spend it frivolously
Purely for enjoyment
We live for memories
Sleep for dreams
I sleep to wake up next to you
One thing I always look forward to
Is softly kissing your back
From top to bottom
Then bottom to top
As though I am your wake up call
Your human alarm clock
"Rise and shine gorgeous,
it's already ten o'clock"


I want you to know
You are priceless
Beyond value
Beyond worldly things
Invaluable to my happiness
And
Detrimental to the pain
I more than love you
Unfinished
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