The air is perfumed with fresh rosemary's
And the wild springs with lush berries
Their presence colours the nursery with a sweet loom
It bleeds into the forecast for tomorrow's gloom
Nostalgia hits hard, heartbreaking and eerie
For a day when I wasn't paranoid and weary
Well, I'll be down by the Brighton pier
Watching birds float past in lonely fear
I'd love to turn away

The pristine sun shines like Hades
The outside scent is yellow, maybe
Little daises laugh in the foreground
Gardens sow a loving sound
Once I could see hope in the trees
And the love that whispered on the breeze
Now the trees foreshadow longing
And the gale howls with wronging
I'd love to turn away

The intimacy in my yellow tinted flowers seems to have faded
And the soft orchards have been invaded
My words burnt in a smouldering pile of dust
And steaming with the heat of my lust
I told a crowd I had something to say
But the people turned away
away
away...

Skeleton bones in the closet, no, not I, I got live bodies locked in chains. In the spirit of Halloween, I'll wear a hockey mask and be that obsessed killer. Teenage kicks, listen close for the screams. ****** from neglect, ****** because of reject, ****** brought on by me always feeling depressed. You called me names, you tortured my spirit, you ****** me like the idols you worship. I've worsen since i started feeding on your hate. This is my manifesto. Are you scared? You should be. Because I won't take the ranting rambling bigotry you speak. This will be something straight out of a horror scene. The plot thickens, foreshadow what's next. If you think this story is fiction well it's not because we live in a cold world and I'm only giving you a description, a depiction of what words can do, I use mine for assistance, I learned to listen, I hope you do too, because you can create a monster with the powerful words you decide to use.

He looked fine. Fine with a y. Fyyyyne
However another guy had the best style, he could mismatch and make it fit.
Then again no man had abs like him, it was a canvas I longed to....
I will never forget the other guys eyes, his hazel eyes spoke to me.
How couldn't I mention the manly stance, broad shoulders, large hands man.
But honestly, I never saw beauty till I met blank.
Blank is kind, the kind that gives and expects nothing, for he
simply wants to see joy in me.
Blank is confident in himself, in a way that needs to prove nothing because he humble by nature
Blank is rational yet irrational in a way that strives and hopes.
Blank is funny, uplifting, ****.
Blank teaches me about myself, he makes me better.
I've never seen one as beautiful internally, which it illuminates externally.
Hopefully I meet blank.
_, I love you.

Its been a while, since I, seen that smile; that **** style, that turn me on, you're such a trip. I love how you keep it hip; *******, my favorite color- your Thursday pick. From your text, you seem stressed, might have to do it a little longer. Been working out, so I'm a little bit stronger- hold your legs back, shoulder press:I hope I'm making you wonder. Hands, coiled around your legs; up. Under your dress, hands slowly progress- it hurts now, the seconds seem longer; you feel blessed. You slipped, so I slide in; like it was meant to happen.

My hand griping your hips, pulling you in, a tight fit: harder- already told you I was stronger, now your feeling it. So professional when you came; now you leaving a mess. I flipped the script.

Black *******, with white spots all over your dress- blaming me for your mess. Now I'm  *******; ready or not. Your *** up, stomach in knots, my kingdom ***; our foreplay, can foreshadow my plot- give you a life sentence, that will make ****** on the dot. All our issues, disappear; like you're straight flush- red all in the face; light touch: 2 ours later; such a rush.

I waste my time while I work
I waste my time while I play
I waste my time while I sleep
I waste my time while awake

I intend to die without...

To die without honor
To die without dignity
To die without valor
To die without sanity

When the air around us becomes still, I begin the hunt for guarantees. Perhaps they are hiding, terrified, within the glimmer of promise that always seems to catch me moments before the fall. Maybe they are written somewhere inconspicuously, in the spaces between the fingers that hold me together better than gravity ever did. Savor this, I repeat to myself, a broken record that only remembers how to play the same tune over and over, over and over; but for some reason, I keep it running. Savor this. Savor this. Savor this. But when your lips greet the apples of my cheeks with a fire that cannot be extinguished, time is all that crosses my mind.
You whisper the volumes of reasons why you love me and I am only thinking of the moment you will tire of it. You shelter my joy in a canopy of trust, but I am far too busy counting seconds until the minute I become just another pretty story for you to tell when I have been set aside to collect dust.
I have discovered art in the curvature of your temples and the way you shook my father's hand with honor that night you kissed me under the illuminated blanket of God's great masterpiece. I have discovered it in the way you hold me close on the days I feel light years away from myself, the days when my body feels more like an abandoned orphanage than something that is meant to be alive.
You promise me forevers decorated in contentment and I am waiting for the day you regret it.
We are youthful and electrified, juggling candles at the tips of our fingertips and expecting not to burn.
I tell you that I want a yellow house with light blue shutters and a swing on our porch that rocks gently in the breezes of April.  I tell you that I have visions of us warming our feet by the fireplace in December snowfall, consuming peace within the melodious laughter of the children we will have. I tell you that when it storms, we will build forts out of quilts and hold competitions of brightness between the lightning and the glow of our own love.
I almost tell you that I need this, but I only find fear in my disappointment when I realize that there are no guarantees, and until tomorrow comes, we are holding our breath in limbo.
Instead, I tell you that I love you presently, and while we slow dance in our backyard a thousand eternities away, I am losing track of days spent grieving a dream that has not yet, or never will, come true.

If I could write the days into a memory i could forget....
than i could foreshadow the future I havent seen yet....
Id scribble down the worst of my life... But always sign the best...
Put my heart onto the paper and keep it out of my chest.....
But a stationary hero isnt the answer for my worded crimes....
Like the emotion cannot be beautiful grammar or rhymes......
A Fragile label cannot be placed on the package i deliver....
The damage is real like my poisoned liver....
I declare a proclamation of Houston we have a Problem....
I know my problems.... Words they wont solve them....
So Scribbled shaky pen stains on bar napkins became my bible.....
The pain was a memory not a selfish revival.....
If you can see yourself within my written pain.....
All I mean to say is " I wish I could See you Once Again"......

death.

a loss of vision,
there,
in the corner.

a corrosive lack,
purpose and sense
lost in the way.

another step,
suspension.

feels like it is time.

wrapping time.

making a fire
with all the debris.

I opened the gifts one by one,
knowing that the softness I felt
under the antique Santa Claus paper
was yet another bundle of fabric,
more clothes to add
to my ever-expansive wardrobe.

One by one, the patterns were revealed to me:
some plain black cotton,
a Paris print with a sparkly pink tower,
paper cutouts the size of my favorite dolls,
and at last, a sewing machine.

I remember a roomless memory,
my mother and I hovered over the machine,
the internet failing to teach us
how to maneuver the thread.

“We’ll try again later,” she said.

Now, I open the drawer under my bed,
remove a dust-covered box,
running my fingers along the top of it.
I remove the as-new machine,
my failed future.
I walk to my computer, switch taps
from a Buddhism study guide
to an empty Google Docs.

I wonder if I was a seamstress in a past life.
Did I watch my family create the cave paintings
while I sat in the corner, hide on my lap
with a splinter of bone in my hand,
feeling nothing but bliss?

Did I live in the Edwardian era,
tailoring a perfect three-piece suit,
a walking skirt, my daughter’s chemise?

Did I ever pass my grandmother
in a secondhand store,
with my goal of finding a perfect neckline,
my favorite sleeves, a plaid pattern.

Did I find them among the stained and unloved,
did I make them into something beautiful?

Was this not a flashback, but a foreshadow?
Was this a hint at my next life?
Will I do the same with my daughter,
passing down the cotton and glittered tower,
hugging with triumph when the machine roars to life?

Will I be there at her first fashion show?

What if there is no past or future.
What if my soul is me, unchanging, stable.
What if I’m a butterfly,
every passing second another cocoon?

For I am a tree,
and these memories
are my branches.

My left arm holds the present,
the current reality. I fail to sew
even a button, but my dreams
reside content.

With my right arm,
I hold another present,
equally as real.

In this world, I made my doll a dress,
a bedspread with the leftover fabric.
In this world, I am not a poet,
and I don’t often dream.
In this world, my floor is my stage,
this fabric is my home.
In this world, I know not of other realities.
In this world, I live buried in my ignorant bliss.