safety, a word i never quite grasped
but your arms pound the definition
into my head like a gunshot
impossible to ignore and somehow
a little bit frightening

nothing is permanent
whispers through my ears
whistling insecurities that you
can't quite catch can't quite drown
out of this whirlpool of a mind
you've entangled yourself in

you are laughter and light
and a steady beam of sunshine
that dances around the musty
abandoned museum of my heart
but, darling, light fades

these shadowy thoughts slip from my mouth
clumsily, gurgling fountains of messy words and
you kiss my lips quiet, murmuring softly
not today, not today, not yet

and so the whispers fade to just
a rustling background noise
just a nonsense worry for another day

i am so afraid of losing you
that i have not quite let myself
have you just yet

surroundings around me.
Trying to perceive.
The only thing is ...
There's nothing to perceive
I feel nothing around me.

And now I know.
that pbr is bad...

Battle dog.

Those holy hours,
Fashioned for lovers

Recipe of contented sighs,
Futures planned in star hushed whispers

But it is I alone who dwells within them,
These lonely hours

Good only for licking wounds,
Or tearing new ones

i.
this a song hell bent on ruining your life. i sing these notes in place of screams. you hear this symphony and assume its for someone else. someone with a backbone of razorblades and scorpion venom hands. but its for you. the boy splitting his nicotine lips into a leer. the boy with a tongue in the shape of a noose. the boy who scorched me to the bone.

ii.
two years older with a body the size of jupiter. i was venus. the stars burst inside of me when you shoved your hand into my orbit. this bedroom floor is a solar system galaxies away from the one you and i run in circles in. in all this confusion i wonder who is the sun.

iii.
everything was cold. december painted us white, left us with cinder block hearts. you drank coffee in the morning. your warmth circled me and I desperately wanted to turn the AC up. but it was winter. a time for decay. isnt this fitting.

iv.
you laughed. forced me to fit into a joke that carved me into an ugly thing. your hands were not meant for art. when you touched me sirens exploded.

v.
fingernails in flesh. four letters being torn from my throat and shoved into a poem. ive written about you before. you are the big bad wolf circling me, snarling at me. i am the prey, gutted like game. you ate me for dinner and threw out the leftovers.

The light that sat upon his face
weighed heavy

Jaded

never been more dark
         a hole in your wall
Against your wall
we were pressed

                      "I beg of you,
                 please, come back"

I doodled for days,
thinking and drawing faces,
they all looked like yours.
...sold caricatures...
Emotional ploy,

Three days, none,
Pushed away like a hyphen.
So logically speaking.
I have taken a break from...
Drawing

The love that drove you mad.
round the track you race,
The love was mad.
I ignored you.
No, one puts baby in the coroner.
I set you there.
Now, I am mad.
Pout.
No doubt.
Mad love.

Even when a love does not belong
It still behaves as love
It still needs to be seen
Like a child playing dress-up

Try to ignore it
To boot it from your life
And it will wake you in the night
It will move from under your pressure
Like a syrup-filled capsule

Try to conceal it
And it will compel guilt to marry your soul
Even a small love
will clutch your heart with its needy eels

Draining you, taking from you what it wants
Until you acknowledge it
With touch or with gifts or with *****

There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash

I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream

She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.

Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.

No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.

Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.

Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.

Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.

But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.

And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.

What a guy I was!

But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.