Does the world know when to cry?
Avidly, the decision of cold...
Could, is a word to the wise
Marveling at a tear one day, could love share a final goal?

Many ways, with a single idea
Mere to fore, the day of vanity...
Sat in high regard, but with sharing as a trophy
Little faces; renown is a pace of charity...

Devoted to peace, a savior will say:
In my heart, with obscurity as a gift...
Measure upon now, new is to be may?
A swallow of pride, with an eye to lift?

From due, we are a family...
For youth, we intend to be free...
More who, than we know; is a key...
Or soon, patience will keep time for me...

With the eyes of truth
Means to an end, is a waking deem
Silent as sent, but met with seeming couth
Simple might, we took; from the world's dreams...

If I could gather all the stars,
And place them in a bowl,
If I could capture a sunset
And frame it for your wall.
If I could scrape off sunlight's glow,
That kisses the green grass,
Blend the mixture gently,
And serve it in a glass.

I would, I would,
A thousand times or more,
To bring you closer to the beauty
Of all you're longing for.

It has been three Tuesdays since I lost you.
I will never forget seeing you, just lying there.
I went to our regular coffee shop, at the regular time.
For the second week in a row I ordered both our drinks.

It has been nine Saturdays since I lost you.
The drugstore called yesterday and said your medicine needed to be picked up.
I picked it up.

It has been seven episodes of that show you like, since I lost you.
Most of the things on the DVR are yours.
I’m just not ready to delete them. It’s the little things.
I don’t think I can just yet.

It is the first Thanksgiving since I lost you.
Dinner at my parents was nice, but no one mentioned you.
I canceled Christmas with your parents.
They said they understood.

It has been twenty-two Sunday walks in the park since I lost you.
More than once, my friends told me it is time to pick up and move on.
What is so important about moving on? I lost someone I love.

It has been dozens of mornings waking up and not seeing you asleep.
You are more than someone I wanted to spend my life with.
You were a comfort, a constant, a habit.

It has been five months since I have heard you tell me you love me,
and the memory is starting to fade. I can’t lose it too.

It has been one hundred seventy-four days, sixteen hours, and twenty-one minutes since I lost you.
To him.

Chaos is beauty in its purest form

We live in the sunshine of our broken loves,
Where window curtains flow like pouring water from the aqueducts.

Sunlight is the memory of an old world, and we are just
Watchmakers who labor at the trumpets of time
As if to blow from the mouthpiece and unwind
The second hands and derelict hours of our luminous grief.
So too shines the scintilla of frost that covers the ancient wheat,
Snow falls like the listenings of lovers in the dark, and we are just
Cartographers of snowflakes, mapmakers of frozen eyes,
To zone the parallelogram of her strands of hair across the sky.

These and these and these
Were never ours.

The beauty of made beds?
Irony on the verge of beauty cope?
Settling bared for a beauty, in the name of sleep?
A question of simplicity, for beauty to requite a hope?

Soul, a passion has come, to ye...
Let with solemn have, and the actual
Powers that since, singing the soul of worth into view be
The rage of decency, to earn the better of a future who...

Pride is a laboring voice, with a moment to same notion
Needfulness with a bared truth, eats from the hand of beauty
Sound to solace, and the devil to see, is the world's sin
Comparing *** with a riddance's dance, is only lucre

How or the risks of hatred...
Know love like a challenge of sincerity, that hasn't
Adage and cares intoned with a house sulking, is terror's lead?
When avid is a searching heed, it is a voice that wasn't...

Save honor the time, and you will see...
A choice of significance to a wish, larger than life atoned
With the reasons of virtue, that began with a seeming victory
Of life in the grasp of love, that has sat a champion of a soul, one...

A chance meeting with something besides beauty...?
Sour and in deference to liberty, the question of earned kind
Is for the senses, of witnessing the grace it took, each
Idea of life continuing to be, the reality we made, for a heart and a mind...

Disillusionment:

seeing the ridiculous --


ignoring beauty.

always happy, always in bloom,
always one step away from becoming
just a collection of parts;
her head still smiling and pretty
rolling across the floor.
sorry, did i break the illusion too soon?
not so beautiful now that you know
what it feels like to be her.
makes you wish the flashes would stop,
makes you want to scream
"can't you see she's already done enough?"
why can't they set her free?
but alas,
she must always be happy,
always in bloom,
always one breath away from becoming
just a collection of parts.