Broken,
lost,
hopeless.
We are all ghosts.
Yet we feel the pain, love, and hatred from others.
From everything we once knew.
They're more than just dreams
that never came true.
They're everything I've wanted
and so much more.
And if happiness is
making something
out of nothing.
Then I need to take this... This...
This... Feeling of
nothingness,
and fix what
shouldn't be
broken.

Some of us learn the first time
And some learn by frequent repetition
So what I would like to find
Are more tolerant participants
That are willing to be consistent
When conversing with a mind
That is needing patient assistance
And with a little extra time
We can eliminate resistance
And as one, realign
With our unified mission

I've decided that it pays to be a pessimist
We love deeply, while not ignoring the feeling of our hearts begining to crack
This doesn't mean our hearts end up in any fewer shards
Or are any less impossible to reassemble
But at least we're not surprised when they shatter

share with me the highlights of your day
and if you choose not to say much
I will listen anyway.
Well I know that we all need some time alone
time to simmer, time to think
and time to not pick up the phone

and I need time to trust in what I feel
am I just thinking there's a distance
or is it something that is real?
It's hard to tell, just now, which is the case
I am not much for deciphering
your moods, it's not my place.

A vacant beach and somewhere a dog's bark
watched a full moon light the ocean
and the beach as it grew dark.
Pedaled past two lovers on a blanket in the sand
it's been so long that I've forgotten
the very memory of your hand.

Share with me of the doldrums of your day
but if you choose not to say much
I will listen anyway.
or just walk with me in silence, hold my hand
and if you're wanting not to touch me
I'll begin to understand

the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.

An absurd, charming little laugh
Her voice was a wild tonic in the rain
Each speech, an arrangement of notes
A singing compulsion
Impersonal eyes
A thrilling voice
The absence of desire
Beautiful little fool
Her face was sad and lovely
With bright things in it
That was a way she had

Thumping of the heart,
Echoes in her mind
With each little step,
Reaches she; The destination.
The destination of her gullible mind.
Eyes blurred with tears,
Happy tears,tears of freedom.
Retrospection seeks her mind; sad days were gone. 
No longer are they a part of her soul,
She looks at those scars,of pain and violence. 
Which marks her pale body.
'This is the end' , her psyche tells her. 
End of her forbearance. 
She'll fight,for the sake of dignity.  
For respect,for pride.
The phoenix in her soars high,proud and unafraid. 
A new birth, a new identity. 
She'll fight,for a change.

To be loved by a writer
Is to be immortalized
You will live on forever in her writing
Your quirks,
Your ideas,
Your insecurities,
Writers notice everything
And we never forget
You might catch her smiling at you
For what seems like no reason at all
But she's just trying to describe
The exact color of your eyes

To be loved by a writer
Is to have your entire relationship in written word
All you have to do is read and re-live everything again
Your first kiss,
Your first fight,
Your first date
Nostalgic memories in chronological order
And you may even learn something you never knew
Since everything will be in her point of view

To be loved by a writer
Is to see her frustration
Because she wishes she could be an artist
Since no words serve you justice
She wishes she could just paint a picture
And then they would understand
Because no amount of words could perfectly depict
Your hair sticking up,
Your abundance of freckles,
You wearing glasses
She gets upset when she thinks
She'll never fully portray all the things you say and do
But she'll never run out of ways to say "I love you"

To be loved by a writer
Is to be eternal
And to never fully disappear
And no matter what, she'll see you everywhere
Even when she opens her mind and escapes reality
Because she is the writer
And you are her writing
For you own her heart
From which her words flow

All thats left are these shadows on my bones
The glass doesn’t cover your photograph like it used to
You’re not some precious protected memory anymore
Barely more than a raindrop on the window pane
You were the ghost on the other end of the phone
The bullet in the chamber inches away from the barrel
And the odds against the both of us
Despite all of this we both held on for so long
You taught me that its called a death grip because when you finally let go
There is a piece of you that departs with her
All thats left are these shadows on my bones
From where you held on too tightly when it was time to go
*~W.C.