I think it's stupid that you're gone, and the stars are still around. Every night I can look to the stupid sky and see the shimmering light from too many stupid years ago but I can't see you.
I think it's stupid that I told someone how angry this made me, and they were stupid enough to say, "maybe they're up there too." I've never made anyone feel that stupid with a look before.
I think it's stupid that you're gone but the stupid voicemail you left me saying, "I love you" is still around and you're nowhere to be found.
I think it's stupid that there are still phone booths, crayons and wite-out on this stupid paradoxical planet, but not something people still want around.
I think it's stupid that...
I just think it's so stupid that I let you tell me that you'd always be here for me, because I knew I was stupid enough to believe you if I ever became stupid enough to let you say it to me.
I think it's stupid that I let you drive to me that night knowing how dangerous the stupid black ice was going to be to your stupid blue car.
I think it's stupid that you loved me enough, to be stupid enough to drive here in the first place.
But really, ultimately,  I think it's just so **** stupid that I was stupid enough to watch them bury you under six-feet of stupid Earth, and not say goodbye.




I'm sorry I'm stupid.

You be my sailor' and I'll be be a boat for you.
We'll sail off to adventurous lands together
Buy silk, sweet smelling woods and magic fruit
We'll bob on the waves under the silvery moons light
And tell tales to each other of imaginary worlds
We can adopt animals and birds from strange islands
Buy exotic spices measured by Chinese pirates
Maybe I shall rescue you from their ship on the high seas
When they try to sell you as a bejewelled slave of love
There will be pools of turquoise to swim in under blue skies
Beaches of white glistening sands set with mother of pearl
Birds to watch and listen to as we swim and bats to fly overhead
Foods of many lands to enjoy savour and wonder over
You and I shall have so much fun throughout life together
Even though our lands are no more than the duvet
And our adventures are nothing more than dreams in our heads.
Then will come the day we must go our separate ways
Adventures of our own on our own but knowing
That we will be once again be reunited to explore each other
Our adventures no longer held by the duvet or imagination
To be allowed to stroll along beaches, to truly fly in the skies above.
To be together forever and held in each other's arms and free.

When I was a little kid
My friends and I would play
At cowboys and Indians
In the barn with forts of hay.
We crafted guns from sticks
We found about the farm
And though we shot each other
We managed to come to no harm.

Bang, bang, bang! I got you!
No you didn’t, you missed!
The bullet whizzed by me!
You can’t see me in the mist!

Of course, if we were Indians
The same rules held true there.
You never managed to **** us
We never took your hair.
But, we knew we were villains
Because cowboys were king.
We didn’t even question it.
It was that sort of thing.

Bang, bang, bang. I got you!
Cowboys don’t ever cry.
We twist and dodge you redskins
So, don’t even bother to try.

Holding invisible reins, we rode
On our noble painted steeds.
We pretended it was the old West
Here in our playground of weeds.
Some of us had play weapons
Santa had brought to the lucky
But forcing improvisation only
Made us a lot more plucky.

Bang, bang, bang. I shot you.
You ***** lowdown rustler.
Oh, we thought of every dodge.
What young, clever hustlers.

Being underage is like living in the prohibition era
There's always a party going on somewhere
Golden girls with bobbed hair and flowing clothing
Bad boys over-age importing alcohol in.

The roaring under-20s
The tales of the Jazz age
There's always a dance to have
A friend to stick with
A boy to catch your eye.

I never got invited to parties
That is, until I reached the roaring heights
Of high society
When for one night I was the focus of your attention
No other girl danced as much with you.

People were taking drags on long cigarettes
Noise everywhere, wild young hearts aflame
You caught my eye once more
And you looked at me the way all girls want to be looked at.

Our courage bubbled over, I gave you a kiss on the cheek
A Parisian end to the night
And I let you go off
Into the misty green light.

I need a vacation.

Maybe a trip to Italy.

I gotta revitalize.

Maybe, Pompeii.

I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.

There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.

I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.

Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.

My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.

I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?

The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.

What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.

In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.

He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.

The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.

The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.

The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.

The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.

His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.

The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.

The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.