I craved the sunlight on my skin
But the day had come to
An unsavory end
The night didn’t need
An introduction
I was all too familiar
With the loneliness
Disguised in darkness
I need light in my life
To survive

W H Y*  *is it I smile whenever I
H ave
Y ou close to me darling?

W H Y  is it I feel sad whenever I
H ave
Y ou not close to me darling?

W H Y
H aven't you yet admitted I did fall for
Y ou darling?

W H Y
H aven't you ever entrusted me with
Y our fragile heart darling?

W H Y
H aven't you ever admitted it
Y ou mean the world to me darling?

W H Y
H aven't you ever admitted it
Y ou're my everything darling?

W H Y
H aven't you yet admitted it
Y ou're the angel of my dreams darling?

W H Y
H aven't  you yet admitted all I crave is
Y our love darling?

W H Y
H ave you failed to admit I love
Y *ou with all my heart & soul darling?

You don’t know how it feels.

When you are cut from your lifeline
like an apple being picked
when it isn’t fully grown.
When you are replaced
with hard plastic and metal
where bone should be.

You probably want to know why he hates you.

It is because he has to learn how to walk again.
Because you can’t run like I could.
Because you can’t kick a soccer ball like I could.
Because you can’t make him itch like I could.
Because you are a reminder of the infection.
The infection...
that took me away from him.

I was made with him.
You were made for him.

You took six weeks to be created
I took nine months.
I was his first step,
You were a puzzle piece
that didn’t quite fit
You had to be forced
by people in white masks and blue gloves
They couldn’t touch you and
neither can he.
So instead you lay on his bedroom floor.

And I will not feel bad for you because
I am lying in a medical waste bin.
Waiting for my turn to enter the fire.

This
is
my
hell.

I miss him,
will you tell him
that I miss him?
Let him know the feeling is mutual.

I understand if you tear this up
there is no warmth in you.
No blood will ever pump through you.
Trust me, I get it.

When the heart dies, it is buried where it belongs.
Being hugged by its fellow vital organs.
it’s just like taking a nap
they say.
But when I die,
I am surrounded
by other dispensable body parts.
We are the forgotten few.
People do not have funerals for finger tips.
It feels like I am being eaten alive.

You can’t tell me I should feel bad for you.
Or that I should feel sorry for you.
Because I was alive,
I was moving
and you
are plastic.

Just,
tell him goodbye for me.

It's hard to walk
the dunes of depression.
Not only from the loose shifting sands,
but the presence of soul eating,
demonic illusions
that pretend to be poetic
yet are just rotting, hypnotic words
hell bent on falsifying your mind.

The ironic indentations
in this madness
is you are standing amidst
blue sky lithium dreams
of xanax desires,
stuck with rainbow's
colors pounding at you,
making you think everything is fine
as the whole world burns;
a "one day at a time"
horror show
that shouts a *******
symphony in B sharp major.

Hell,
no wonder
I love the "blues".

Aztec Warrior 7/12/15

there were endless baubled
      babbles in her head,
yet, she spoke nary a word,
scribbled 'pon careful avenues
    neath cautious sky cover,
her notions were
   silver lined intended
      amidst dandelion wishes,
but the waylaid winds
  always whisked them away
    as insignificant gray clouds
         unquestionably appeared
     beyond shadow's fair conditions,
   whilst torrents smeared
       a reigning scrawled disarray,
  deluging what was left of
          her frozen sunrise passages

He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.