Hopelessly dependent on your heads and hands
were the pieces of me strewn on your platters
spinning wildly, correcting, dissecting my faces
praying for movement of the allegro, sans.

{An insidious little fox with her naughty tail
came to wrap around my being and close
never you mind what transpired next,
a shattering soul was no longer frail.}

But back and forth the fugue swings
never fulfilling the adagio's haste
the remnants of me are long since lost
scrambling for nothing, my madness sings.

Now I am left with no memory or past
now there's naught to look forward to
now I can die a regretful death
now the scherzo, can take flight, at last.

No tears shall fill this olive grove
the sorrows of a few grace its arches
the final movement is now at hand
slump, lively, into the irony of the allegro.

and for a moment there our hands almost touched

but I didn't know what to say
it was late and we were both drunk
the sky had been dark for hours
and everyone inside the house was loud and
I could barely hear myself think

and I wanted to tell you
so much it hurt my chest
and the ice unfolded in my stomach
and killed all the butterflies

but I knew you'd never think of me
that way and so we just sat
on the railing outside some kid's house

and I swallowed all the love I felt for you
bitter and writhing and alive in my throat

and stayed silent as the sun came up

do you know how many times i've had to suffer through the same tired metaphors over and over and over again.

put down your tears and your stars
and your cigarettes and your coffee
and your waves and your skies
and your hearts and your bruises
and pick up your pen and write
something worth living for ******* it.

because i haven't read a poem from the heart in years
and all your elaborate conceits and sadness and promises
and "i love you"s and lips and dreams
are getting on my ******* nerves.

rage against the stereotypes and conventions and
rage against Petrarchan and Romantic and
Post ******* Modern love.

Don't write something because you feel like it.
Write something because you would explode if you didnt

Its that time of night
when all I do is try to write
but all that comes out is
words and not WORDS

Everything is funnier
in this funny time of night
and yet nothing has made you
want to cry so hard in your life

Isn't everyone lonely
in this lonely time of night
but a thousand other people
are lonely tonight

Lets all be lonely together

It's getting to that time of night
when the numbness becomes
unbearably
light

I'm afraid I'm starting to feel again
and believe me
I've never wanted to understand
why all our lives end

It's finally that time of night
when blood looks blue and not red

Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.

i found myself
inside
eating
my
own
heart