my words are going to hit you.
so hard,
you forget your first name.
the paintings etched on your skin
will now be our story
and i want your
cigarette-stained fingertips
to burn holes into
my skin -
set me on fire.
my words are going to stay with you
while you're not
holding your breath
on bridges,
tunnels,
elevators,
traintracks...
and while my face would be turning blue,
with lack of oxygen.
my words are
so precisely
and concisely
constructed into sentences,
that are never spoken,
never whispered,
uttered,
or murmured;
but they are written down
for you to read.
so please -
touch my face
tell me you love me
then *set me on fire.

"misery loves company"*
then why do i feel
so alone?

clear minded
being whole
with nothing more
i am more

I want to surround myself with photographs at my feet.
I want to explore and have adventures with my camera in hand.
I want to get up early in the morning to see the sun rise and see drops of dew on the grass.
I want to walk around at night and see the city lights shine.
I want to count the stars as I lie down on a field of grass and play Us Against the World.
I want to write in a leather notebook all my thoughts.
I want to have a bonfire and watch all my memories burn in the flames.
I want to curl up on the couch and read as the sun warms my skin.
I want to sleep at 2 am and wake up to the birds chirping outside my window.
I want to remind myself of why I fell in love with photography and writing.
I want to go back to makes me me.

Rain, rain,
go away
Come again another day
I want to go out and play
But inside I guess I'll stay

Rain, rain,
pour down on me,
Wash away my sins, relieved
restore the faith in my beliefs
Now alive, once deceased

Rain, Rain,
Keep falling down
It's been a while
Since you've been around
Won't you please soak the ground
Of this dry and boring town

Rain, Rain,
fill me up,
Satisfy my feeling of "Not enough"
Make soft the callouses
On these hands that felt so rough

Rain, Rain,
Won't you come more often
Make my heart soften
Along with the Earth
Thats been trodden

Rain, Rain,
won't you come more often...

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.