Dear nostalgic memories,
I think of you as the wind smiles into a breeze,
almost like this sleeping city is making it ease,
lights are coming to life as my cigarette is dying,
the sleepy warmth and moonlight glow,
is something I am starting to love, to know,
watching from my own little spot,
a sense of ease and a feeling of dread,
come sweeping in waves inside my head,
to feel longing for what has been said and done,
and a hope for what is to come,
I am like the dancing dead,
I should be asleep and in bed,
but the lack of comic mischief,
and cosmic drama,
are keeping me away,
making my little stairwell,
one of my many pieces of heaven,
in a life that can feel like hell,
so I will sit here and pay the price,
of not sleeping tonight and not waking tomorrow,
because I can feel the ocean breeze, and for once in a long time in my life,
I can say,
I just feel nice.

Sometime I want to die,
and I don't even know why.

To see the light at the end of the tunnel,
to embrace death as an old friend,
to no longer have to exist.

Sometimes it's triggered by something,
but sometimes,
it washes over me,
flows through me,
like molten iron running thru my veins,
burning me from the inside out.

But I continue to move forward,
for better or worse,
I'm not done fighting yet.

These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.

I saw you standing in a storm

The rain dripped from your fingertips and in your eyes was the echo of distant thunder

A reminder that they were once a place where lightning used to flash and dance

But no more.

If I was your first,
would you have appreciated me as much?

Would you still know that I was the one for you,
and there was no one else?

If I was your second,
would you have grown enough?

Would you know how to love someone,
and how to treat anothers heart?

If I was your third,
would you still have tryed so hard?

Would you know know love is worth fighting for,
would you never give in?

If I was your fourth,
would you be so pashen?

Knowing that love is worth waiting for,
and being so easy to forgive?

If you were my first,
would I have been ready?

Would I be able to handle such a large commitment,
and know what a healthy relationship looks like?

Through trial and evor,
we found each other,
I don't care that I'm not your first,
as long as I'm your last.

She wonders
(more often then she'd ever admit)
Whether it might be worth it
(and she quietly believe it might)
To shuffle of this mortal coil
(perhaps earlier than she'd planned)
If only to escape responsibilities
(as she's dreadfully selfish)
And wonders how it is
That's she's kept herself so far
Tied to the ground
(Though honestly she knows)