I should be better.  

I should be the man who reaches for your hand without hesitation,  
who speaks in soft tones and knows the right words,  
who doesn’t flinch when love is placed before him  
like a gift he has never deserved.  

But I am not.  

I am sharp edges and broken glass,  
a locked door with no key,  
a storm that does not know how to do anything  
but destroy what it touches.  

I love you more than life,  
but my love comes out wrong.  
It comes out in silence when you need words,  
in words when you need silence,  
in distance when you need closeness,  
in fire when you need warmth.  

I don’t know how to be gentle.  
I don’t know how to hold something precious  
without cracking it in my hands.  

You tell me I am cruel.  
That I make you feel small.  
That loving me is a wound that never quite heals.  

I want to say I don’t mean it,  
but what does that matter?  
A blade doesn’t have to mean to cut  
to make you bleed.  

And you are bleeding.  

Because of me.  

Because I don’t know how to let myself be loved  
without turning it into something ugly.  
Because I don’t know how to take your kindness  
without twisting it into something sharp  
and throwing it back at you.  

Because I am trying to ruin this before you realize  
I am already ruined.  

And yet—  
I want you to stay.  

I want you to choose me  
even as I make you hate me.  
I want you to love me  
even as I give you nothing to hold onto.  

I want you to see through the wreckage  
and find something worth saving.  

But I know better.  

I know you will leave.  
I know I will let you.  
I know I will watch you walk away  
and say nothing,  
do nothing,  
pretend it does not split me open from the inside.  

And when they ask me what happened,  
I will say—  

"I loved her."

And they will not understand  
why that was never enough.

From ecstasy to anguish—
Now I fizzle out.
There is dribble on my chin
And patience in my womb.
I have failed my task within,
That which I begun again with laboured chagrin;
And now it seems, evidently, I appear as apparition,
Walking the gentle tides of doubt.

Feelingless eyes flicker through the streets.
They see cars moving around.
Their owners blend with the vehicles
until society becomes nothing but a uniform machine.

A uniform, lonely, horrible machine.
Everything
         becomes
    gray.

There's a fire
in my chest.
It's burning in
water.
The steam
fogs my glasses.
As being on the verge
of breaking down
draws ever so closer.

Closer than a lover
closer than the
decaying yellow
from the vines of
a dead fern.
So much closer than
the smoke-stained paint
which coats the walls of my home
an off-white uselessness.

Carrying an anchor
so far
from the sea,
it bears a toll on me.
Half dead
hunched over
waiting for
a candle's light to
reach my
ever-growing darkness.

My body is half buried
in the dying Texas blue grass.
The worms
maggots
and circling birds
hungry to tear away
at the flesh of a dead poet.

What were you thinking about
The night before?

Did you hold me as we slept
To memorized the touch?

Did you look at me
To remember my features?

When you said goodnight
Was that a prelude to goodbye?

Was the night before
The last time you loved me?

What were you thinking about
As you kissed me goodnight?

Was that kiss
The last we'd ever shared?

Were you thinking about
Our final night together?

Did you feel my heartbeat
Felt it whole before breaking it?

The night before
Were you mine?

The night before
Did you wish it was different?

Did you look at the clock
To count the last hours of us?

Did you feel asleep
Still thinking of me?

What were you thinking of
The night before?

What were you thinking of
Before you whispered "no more"?

Did you wait all night
For the sight of dawn?

Did you dream instead
That it would never end?

What were you thinking of
As you saw my resting eyes?

What were you thinking of
As you cried for the last time?

The night before
You said goodbye

Time dreams to able heal,
wounds feel open & peel,
sleep stubborn spider crawling
brittle bones munch & mauling.

This is the church
in a photograph
I took with pride,
see the entrance's
heavy door
when its open wides,
starry eyes enchanted
to see the wonders
likes within,
beauty of art-works
etched on windows
as you see.

Walk inside,
Wonder at
architecture,
built by brain-washed
slaves,
fired by a polished
sweet gun.
A dream to die,
Are you merrily
dancing square center?

Time eagerly spins the wheel,
wounds amateur stitched
can dream to be sealed,
but dead can't be healed
skin like paper, rapidly draws,
empty keg that bar-maid pours.

This is the school photograph
where I'm smiling,
third grade second row
third to left drowning
in a sea of happiness
and broken promises,
scarring away
as no peers
or teachers notices.

Wandering,
School built
looks like prison,
the clicking of
firmly held pens,
exclaims ignored
by teachers
irrational student
detention was built
by hell-sent
hiss at never...

I continue,
to love her
Burn Eden's Garden
Its a reminder,
gentlest touch
from heaven.
No church or school,
could ever contain,
and a fountain's dew
could only  spray
chaotic waste-ful days.

Tell me this is not the end
I don't want things to end this way
My hands are numb
I am losing breath
Panic attack
Getts in my way
I am spiraling
My emotions all around
Somehow it feels like the end
But it is just another nightmare night
And tomorrow will be another shiny day
Until the night falls down again

My audience claps to my stormy choices,
the thunder's loud, with rumbling noises,
the cake that delights and I get to eat,
they all tune in and take their seats

Exhilarated with the chaos I cause,
I smash through their glass doors,
to a dead end of a solid timber one,
I grab an axe, like the shining son.

Black eyes haunt my blackest days,
refuse to take in error of my ways,
chaos interrupts thoughts of redemption,
stormy weather, my boat's long sunken,

Audience award trophy, they clap to me,
as I bitterly & painfully wish to be free,
there's a reason those stars are hard to reach,
other candidates paddle out from the beach.

They keep her on strings and out of my palms,
puppet master taunts so I can't remind calm.
good times are considered bad for ratings
they need me unstable with little persuading

They need me broke and out on the streets,
ratings will shoot up as I burn my sheets,
Naïve, hardly street wise, where do I go?
through the cracks where I lay so low,

They cheer and laugh as I flee with apples,
sleep outside of a spectacular chapel,
freezing with blankets, they pump their fists
tick of approval off their popular lists.

Audience Award trophy  goes to me,
blood shot eyes,  un-believing
close my eyes in my ***** old blanket,
ashes in wind,  scattered to the sea.

Im sorry....
Im sorry im not enough...
Im sorry i cant be there....
Im sorry i cant be what you need.....
Im sorry i cant give you what you need..... im so sorry....
Im sorry i cant provide what you need..... im sorry...
Im sorry...
Sorry...