Another hole in the wall, another brick that falls. I try tearing down what I've tried to keep me built up. Its harder to see behind these things that I've kept up for years and years to come. Knees grow weak, fist stay steady on target. These walls that I've used as my shield have become my weakness, my fault is my own. So deep I hide, without ever saying good bye I've forgotten all that you were and now look what I've become. Trapped you see me, but your sight is only what you claim them to behold. Do you see me? Or do you see this image I've left out on their exterior? I've longed for something to keep me safe from harm, but doing so I gone to far. For now I see, that these walls that I held so dearly, are the cause of the corruption in me. Taking a stand I rise. Fists at the ready but my body has grown so weak. Fist plummet into into the barriers that once held all away,  and kept the demons at bay will fall tonight. Nothing more now stands in my way and as the dust clears I can see the light of day and who are those to stand around me? Not a word is spoken, but tears of rejoice is heard from their hearts. Forever it is unknown, what we have lost, but what we find in the future is something to hold dear, and live a life without fear is my new aspiration.

To the girl who sits behind me
On the city bus everyday:
I know they probably say
With your cat-eye and your beehive
That you look like you belong
Way back in the day
But I think you look beautiful,
Even more so yesterday,
When you walked onto the bus
with your hair down wearing tear-stains.
I think you looked best today,
With a messy bun and no makeup
Listening to a song
And laughing
While I tried not to smile

To the guy who wrote the poem for me yesterday:
I know you must work hard,
You come here at six in the morning everyday,
And I don’t know why
But when I look your way I feel safe.
I know you probably hear
That you should take a break
But I know what it’s like
To work hard
Because there’s not another way.
And I know they probably say
With your tattoos and your gages
You don’t look your age
And you shouldn’t have gotten the job,
But I think you look best
At five in the morning
When you’ve just woken up
And you’re sipping coffee
While we wait for the bus
And your hair’s all messy
And your tattoos catch my eye
And I try to read them,
But I don’t want to pry

To the girl who replied to my poem yesterday:
You can read my tattoos
Any time you like
And I think you look best
At six in the morning
When your eyes shine bright
And you sip your coffee
And don’t hide your delight
I like the way
You bite your lip
When you read a book
Or you’re thinking
Or bored,
It drives me crazy
How come we never talk?
Maybe one day,
Instead of poems at bus stops
We could go for a walk.
Well, I have to get off.
Your stop’s in a minute,
Try not to forget it.

To the guy who writes me poems at bus stops:
I feel like I know you better everyday,
But it’s really weird,
Because I don’t know your name
And you don’t know mine,
Which I think is fine,
Because if this turned
Into anything other
Than poems
At bus stops,
I’d probably scare you away
Like everybody else.
Maybe we should stop,
Before we both get hurt.
Signed tearfully,
The girl in the seat behind you

To the girl who told me to go away:
You wouldn’t scare me away,
Not yesterday,
Not today,
Not ever.
Please don’t make me leave
Like everybody else.
Signed hopefully,
The guy who writes poems at bus stops

To the guy who writes poems at bus stops:
My name’s Haley
And sometimes I close my eyes
And wonder what they call you.
I take pictures everyday
And that’s why I’m here at five
Or maybe six
Every morning
To capture the perfect sunrise.
Here’s the picture I got
Yesterday, just in case
You wanted to see.

To Haley,
Who gets up early
To capture sunrises:
My name’s Ryan and
I spend all day crunching numbers,
Praying they don’t crunch back.
The picture was beautiful
And I though that maybe
One day
We could meet for coffee
And turn this into something
More than poems
At bus stops.

To Ryan, the number-cruncher
Who stole my heart:
I’d love to go for coffee
And we can laugh while we talk,
Maybe I can even show you
My favorite place
In Central Park
And we can go for a walk.

Dearest Haley,
Who captures sunrises
And stole my heart:
I can’t believe it’s been
A year since we began
With poems at bus stops
And coffee while we
Watched rain drops and talked about us.
I know this may be too soon,
I pray you don’t think me a fool,
To believe a number-cruncher
And sunrise-capturer
Could have a happily ever after.
But what do you say
We give it a shot
And spend the rest of our lives
Telling our kids
About how a number-cruncher
And a sunrise-capturer
Had a fairytale wedding
And are living their
Happily ever after.

Breathing is normal,
appetite is aberrant.
All sounds are ambient.

....I
am
still
here.

Lost in time;
unaware of reality,
but aware of my sanity.

...Am
I
still
here?

Senses have risen
and failed
My mind is jailed.

...Will
I
stay
here?

Jailed but liberated,
I am one with everything.
My heart begins to sing.

...I
am
not
here.

It's obvious
It's so desperate to be near you that it has literally become part of you
It has found a way to sneak through and melt into you
And I'm jealous
Because I'm desperate to be near you
I worship your skin as the salt does
Your hair as the sunlight does
Your eyes as the laughter does
But I fear you may notice if I endeavor to be with you in every sense of the word
So I will continue to brood
In partial silence
Forever envious of the salt and sunlight and laughter

Growing up never comes when you expect it:
It's when you realize that the suicide note under your mattress
Probably has a few too many commas where semicolons should be,
And a little too much emphasis on the last four years of your life-
Missed due dates, flunked exams, and friendships that were supposed to be forever.
It's when you figure out that the boy you spent your freshman year of college worrying about
Never even knew the name of your favorite book,
Or anything else that really mattered.
It isn't something you can predict, or prepare for-
It isn't a sudden shift of priorities that all of a sudden appear
Somewhere in your subconscious, making it a lot easier to get up at 9am for a statistics class
That you're inevitably going to fail.
It isn't anything you do that will change, but rather
A shift inside of you that slowly shakes your entire being.
Youth is only beautiful until it's corrupted,
By the sultry hands of time, beckoning you forward when all you ever wanted to do was hide.
It slowly seeps down into the darkest corners of your mind,
Swallowing up all that innocent ambition
Flung upon you in the fifth grade by a board of indifferent teachers
Who decided to deem you gifted, introducing you to a world of knowledge
Too fascinating to mingle with the uncertainty of responsibility.
There's something frightening about growing old,
Maybe it's because you spent one too many hours of your childhood
Pretending to be someone else- caught up in a storybook world
Full of daydreams and simplicity, too one dimensional for reality.
It's not that it goes away all of a sudden: all the premature doubt
And impulsive wishes of death, or something like it.
But rather, it takes a different form-
That which was once a big red ball full of passionate emotions,
Has deflated, leaving you with only a faint residue of what you used to feel.
Maybe, you got your wish after all- something had to die, you know,
In order for you to carry on without losing your mind.
It's a sad paradox, this sequence of living,
As intuition slowly deteriorates, and common sense
Slinks in, in its premeditated, yet lackluster manner,
And before you know it, you're not a kid anymore.
Peter Pan flew the coop years ago, but Neverland still remains,
A testimony to all the lost childhoods of the ones
Too eager to lay their stake in the land of milk and honey.

Poor Man says...
If I had money
Then I would be free...

Rich Man says...
If I had more money
Then more money is what I'd need...

Poor Man says...
If I had a Mansion
Then who could want for more...

Rich Man says...
I have three Mansions
I'm working on my fourth...

Poor Man says...
I'd have all these friends
I'd shower them with much...

Rich Man says...
I have friends
But don't know who to trust...

Poor Man says...
With my money
I would buy happiness...

Rich Man says...
When the money arrived
Is when the happiness left...

I'm sitting alone, surrounded by people
An un-still congregation, away from their steeple
They pass by me, often without a glance
And when they do, i've missed my chance
Every person here has a story to tell
Their own thoughts on heaven and hell
More than just that, they've lived whole lives
I wonder for what each individual strives
There's a woman in a fluorescent orange cap
A curious thing with ears attatched
She walks into the Hudson news
And all I can hear are the sounds of their shoes
As they still walk on, not noticing me
The man who sits and writes what he sees
I wonder if that's all i'll ever be
And if any of my words mean anything

It wraps around me
Pulling me close all the time
Warm and gentle, like you

I wish for it to
Last forever, but I know
It will all end soon

So I hold on and
It holds me, like a tree branch
Holding a small nest

The wind sends me close -
The fruit of the tree, your neck
And its bark, your chest

My grandmother's hands, dressed in
Sterling silver bands
And stacked bangles
Making music
When she salts
Slices of ham

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.