with this pencil i hold in my hand
i will sketch and i will write
i will do the things to cope
because i lost you
a week ago yesterday

but not long after i begin to draw
the pictures will remind me of you
the tears will fall and scatter
and i will lose myself
yet again

because you took me
which was a piece of pottery
and you pried off the glued down lid
you opened me up
told me what love was
and then you left me

Some things are beautiful,
including you.
You are beautiful,
and you hurt me.

n.e

i had a simple thought
of a blade across my skin
the thing i long for
a thing i don't need
but the urge is so strong
and the feeling lingers on my skin
so tell me
how do i survive without this?

He is dead, and
He used to come and knock at my door
With his shoes undone
His face lit up with a van Gogh grin.
Young artist in the world
Contracting his vision from the noisy space
Of busy, night-lit, city streets,
But he is dead, and
These streets I walk are of a meaner face
Now he is gone.

Gone beneath the brown and barrowed earth
Heaped over him,
Gone beneath the life I've piled
On top of passing life to stop
His sometimes violent memory,
The vivid recollection of moments that
Won't come again,
That haunt the chapels of an aging mind
Which can't escape or span,
Which cannot bridge the water's deep
Disturbing flow.

Yes, you are gone my friend
The choreography of life is lost
Though life rolls on,
No eyes with which to see the world
No voice to fill the world with song,
The sunbeam burst through the sudden shower
Which lights along this city street,
Moves nothing now, moves inland,
Far away from this
Unconscious world.