I can't find the light at the end of the tunnel.
I'm wondering if I'm lost.
I swear I would do anything,
To find my way at any cost.

Don't believe in restrictions,
You'll only find yourself living up to your own expectations....
Don't let the world bring you down,
Just be your own and just be patient.

And isn't it funny being alone?
I can never tell if it makes me more depressed or less.
I am the least social butterfly.
Who am I kidding.
I have not yet grown wings.
I am just a caterpillar making my way among the brightly colored orangeredyellow leaves.

I hate and love everything.
And everything I love with a fiery passion, I invariably hate with the same fire for making me feel this much.
******* all.

Every person and thing I have loved:
you have all controlled me.
And that thought in itself is terrifying.
Is it-- was it-- supposed to be that scary?
Am I doing all this wrong? Anyone care to take the wheel for a bit?

I am not an adult.
I will become one once I stop writing love poems.

I am the last bird to fly south for the winter.
I am the last insect to hear the sprinkler system go off. So here I am.

Drowning because I was dreaming.

And I will drown in every last tear I shed.
In every sip of red wine.
Every drop of blood I spill.
And every shower I take to sob quietly and in peace.
I will drown in the plethora of emotions I feel.
I will drown in love and in hate.

Lie me down on cold brick to prove to me how stable I can feel.
Float me along a river with your hands pushing up my back to show me there will always be something keeping me breathing.

remind me remind me remind me remind me remind me remind me remind m e for I will convince myself that I've forgotten.

I read the poem I wrote about you on the radio yesterday.
I wonder if the waves hit you, wherever you were.
If somewhere under your skin you felt my words
About you.
I'm sure you didn't hear them.
I'd have heard if you had.
Or maybe you did,
And you listened with disgust
Or with that feeling when your heart sinks but it's with fearful hope.
I don't know what you'd think if you heard my voice on the radio,
Saying I cried the night you kissed me.
Maybe you'd be ashamed,
Or maybe you'd call me a goon, like you do when you don't know what to say.
Amanda used to call me silly,
Or kiddo,
The same way-
To make it clear (to herself) that I was not threateningly in love with her
And that she was not perilously fascinated with me.
I really honestly have no idea what you'd do
If you heard
But I think I'd know about it, whatever it was.
I think you didn't hear.
Maybe a friend of yours did,
Maybe one that thought for a moment on the description
And was startled to think of you,
And then dismissed it as ridiculous.
Maybe nobody heard it, who knew you.
But I know people heard it.
And they heard how I loved you that moment when I first truly met you,
And they heard how it broke me to see you walk away
Even though back then you were promising to come back.
They heard what I think you want to forget happened.
And that's why
I read the poem I wrote about you on the radio yesterday.

My sweater smells like cigarette smoke.
When I got out of the shower
I put it back on.
It's funny how things evolve.
That scent used to mean cold nights
And neon lights,
A crowd of people full of piercings and my dad's silhouette ahead
Pushing through the crowds on St. Marks,
Lungs full of thick second-hand soot,
Heart full of excitement and love for my city.
It was a tunnel of smoke I had to get through fast,
And I would hold my breath that entire street,
Not wanting the burn of it in my mouth.
As I got older it also started to mean
That my best friend had found a new way to hate herself.
I noticed a sourness to it,
Something that hurt my throat,
Like the feeling right before you cry.
I never did like cigarette smoke.
To me it meant
A gruesome marriage of death and the desire to die,
A ****-you to a world whose clarity amazed me.
I never liked cigarette smoke.
And then I met you.
And now here I am, with a bit of it clinging to my sweater,
Comforted by burying my face in the soft fabric
Because the fragrance reminds me of you.
Funny, how things can change so completely.
Whenever I smell smoke, now, I think of you,
And I have noticed that the scent itself has changed
Into a richer one, like incense.
It's funny what loving someone can do,
Huh?

Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done to late.

Let ever hour be in its place
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift,
And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.

And when the hour arrives, be there,
Where'er that "there" may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.

If dinner at "half-past" be placed,
At "half-past" then be dressed.
If at a "quarter-past" make haste
To be down with the rest

Better to be before you time,
Than e're to be behind;
To open the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.

Moral:

Let punctuality and care
Seize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E'en from a fading flower

I am the wind.
You are the fire.
We inflame this earth
With passion and desires.

               not even a ray of light
         could penetrate this vacuum

               of darkness. we are
         buried beneath the *****

               of black hole, an abyss of
         reality beyond fantasy

I am the wind.
You are the fire.
We inflame this earth
Until the river of life

               extinguished our fusion
           with water and confusion