i'm falling in love again.
or maybe
rediscovering that Capability
within myself.

i'm falling in love again.
with life, and all of it's
idiosyncrasy.

i'm falling in love again.
with people who are
Ghosts.
percieved wisps of persona.
what ethereal Pedestals i put them upon!

i'm falling in love again.
with the way you look into my eyes.
but  cataracts of reality squander.

i'm falling in love again.
with the struggle of man.
to endure unrequited affections,
and quiet moments of Vulnerability.

i'm falling in love again.
with the prospects of loving again.

first, you gotta stop writing for a few years.
a good dance with Depression
never Hurt anyone.

during this time you're
getting four hours of sleep,
only to sleep till six.
living in squalor,
**** both
literal and otherwise.
trying to get your ulcers
fixed
while drinking yourself to death.

you won't be able to hold a job down
but you'll tell her
and Yourself
that you're trying your best.
so you'll sell ****
to make ends meet.
and you'll take the pills
that they give you because
Doctors say it stops suicide.

and so with whatever Narcissism
you can muster you
Hang On.
using people and drugs and
yourself. wringing it all Dry
like a spent rag.

you lie and tell her you love her
as you *******
into your whale of a girlfriend
because that's all you think
you Deserve.

maybe it was ?

but now you're moving
to a new city
maybe a new you.
you know it's not to run away
from yourself
this time.

maybe it's to make Something.

and i,
being the broken
toy soldier.
a book
with cracked spine,
still wait.

someone
must have
some glue.

your birthday party.
sirens.
crowds gathered in the lawn,
both
from the festivities
and more,
after the incident.

i'm told
that the piece
of hard candy
you choked on
dissolved before
help could arrive.

4 years old,
and the balloons
on your mailbox
seem more Haunting
than celebratory.

i haven't been writing.
and i do
and don't
know why.

i haven't been writing
because you
don't deserve it.

you uncaring masses.

cruel souls.

i haven't been writing
because art;
both others And
my own
ceases to carry much weight.

i haven't been writing
because you
who would love me
are the Same
who hate others.

or myself, also,
once you dug deeper
than your questions
veiled in superficiality.

i haven't been writing
because too many
dogs are dying
lately.

i haven't been writing
because i fear
i am fraud;
unable to recognize
my influences.

i haven't been writing
and i don't Know
whether it should
bother me
or not.

i chanced upon you
once before,
in the vaguest of ways.

and then again,
in much the same
fashion.

there was a tenderness in your voice,
a softness to your Soul
that for reasons i have still yet
to understand
You chose to share with Me.

lying next to me,
i remember thinking
your stature so small to mine
and your Being so much more expansive.

your form, spilled across my own,
like an Ocean.
Vast!
and i would think
any man mad,
who would
sail so quickly through
such placid waters.

surely, you would reach the lands
of another Shore
far too quickly.

and so there i laid,
terrified to move.
how could i?
you, who enveloped me
and demanded all of myself,
every flaw openly
laid bare.
you, who smiled at each,
so patiently.
i couldn't disturb you.
not yet.

i am not a great man.
i worry, and
i tend to read too much
into things.
i will come to annoy you,
either with my
overzealous Affection
or,
maybe,
with my insecurities.

either way.

you deserve to know,
all of This.
i have little to offer.
i will be neither a rich man,
or, a famous person.
but, these are the things
that i can attempt.
i lay my ethics in front of You
and bear myself
Vulnerable.
my honesty, and my dreams
hopes
smiles and
hushed Whispers
of things i would
dare not share.

you, who
does not look at
the impermanent flower
but, rather, are lost either
in your own mind
or in the Horizon.
you who would
not stop to
rest your weary mind, and
Heart.
in the deepest parts
of myself i know.
you could not rest
with me, at least,
not as i wanted to rest
with you.

and i am not a perfect man.
i, who want so badly
to clutch every tumultuous thing
and hold it close
to my heart.
to be uprooted by every storm
and laugh as i
am carried by
the wind.
this, because it is life.
and so,
terrible as it may be
i, who am drawn by your
chaos and
Fire,
am the same
terrible person
who would seek to
cage you, and
be burned only
by yourself.
i am not perfect.
but these are the
things i have
to offer.