Where’s your heart at? They ask me
As though it’s not an ***** in my body
As though it’s not beating in my chest and pumping blood to my organs.
My heart can’t be followed
Because it doesn’t move without me
And my heart can’t be broken
Unless it is punctured by a foreign object.

I appreciate the metaphor, I do, I swear that I do
But sometimes metaphors get a little much
My brain is a metaphor
In the way that it thinks.
Do you see what I did there?
Metaphors run my life, run this world
But sometimes I want to shut it off.

Don’t ask me where my heart’s at
When you know that I’m broken and leaking on the floor
And yet somehow still standing firm and tall.
Don’t tell me to follow my heart
When you know that it’s my thoughts that are jumbled in a knotted mess,
Sans heart,
They’re in a different part of the body after all.

I’m tired of living my life in metaphor
At least for tonight
It’s just an excuse for me to hide behind
A way to add beauty to a desolate place
That otherwise would be of concern
And taken care of
And made permanently beautiful instead of metaphorical façade.

There’s a time for poetry
There’s a time for poetic language
There’s a time to follow your heart and see where it goes
To calm the dragon that is your mind
To walk the cobbled windy streets of your thoughts and ponder

But some days you just have to let it drop
And look at the bleak world around you, no makeup, no photoshop,
To remind you that things have to change.

In the farthest corner of the western sky, golden rays glide down the horizon line and slip into the ground: hiding their splendor till the morrow shall bring their rebirth. The depths of the night seep into the heavens, dousing the expanse with stardust and blinking lights. Shadows lurk under every tree and creep their way into the atmosphere. But to the east, a new night is just beginning. At the base of the mountain range, a subtle candle glow starts to rise from behind the centinal stones and intensifies their monumental silhouettes. As Earth continues her drowsy journey around her axis, the Moon sidles out of his hiding spot and peeks above the horizon.
Somehow, he is different tonight. Rather than launching himself high into the expanse and bathing the terrain with silvery shafts; he stays along the boundary between ground and sky. His sunken frame is wrinkled and pock marked; with the shades of musty old parchment emanating from his surface. He is an ancient manuscript: the literature of a thousand poets and songwrites. Time itself is scribed into his pages and endless mysteries are buried within those yellowed folds. His weary bones tire of holding up the vast sky night after night, giving away his light and energy to all around him. So, just for tonight, he abandons his post, creeping down towards Earth to catch a glimpse of her ever-young radiant beauty and diversity. As he comes in toward her, growing larger to her sight, her textured surface looks close enough to touch. His raspy breath on her delicate skin. His heart aches to drink of her glistening waters and be renewed.
But as he leans in for a drink of her life: he is struck with a startling awareness. Corruption and deceit have manifested themselves within her miles. Pain and blood and cries ring out through the night; swallowing up what peace should have been there with the desperation of their pleas. Children and forests of creatures sink to their graves unseen as the mighty ones among them submit to the will of their greed. The Earth, with her intoxicating scent of ten thousand flowers and fruits and churning waterfalls of hair cascading down her mountainous shoulders, turns her savannah golden eyes toward her dear old friend. His affectionate gaze is filled with heartbreak as she pulls from her own dwindling stores of energy and ever so briefly gives him a frosty caress to lighten his load. The crisp air fills his lungs and the tingle of snowflakes lingers on his cheek as he brushes a tear from her sun kissed nose and climbs back to his place in the sky, once again shining silver and strong.
And if you look up into the sky tonight, you will see, there he remains; constantly making his journey round and round his love, sheltering her from the outside. Shedding his shafts of teary moonlight at the suffering she so patiently endures.

in those late, fragile hours
on those dark, desolate nights
my soul seems to wander the earth
searching for a heart that matches mine

if soulmates do exist
then it is true that my soul was cut in two;
Plato was not fallacious when he said the soul splits in two

once you caressed my hand in yours,
and our fingers intertwined
i knew that this was forever,
that we were forever,
when i saw my life in your eyes

Silence... Violent... Deffening... Destructive...
Silence is, dreadful... Desolate...
Yet all at once, silence is, the rain pouring down,
ricocheting off this small towns beating heart...
Silence is, the sun, blinding... Beautiful... Bright... Just like you...
A reminder that there's light in the night...
Though it may come as a bite... Full of disasters, could I ask her?
The weight of it crashes down on me, silencing my pleas...
When can I be free?

fallen autumn leaves,
color the desolate path.
dreams dancing in breeze

Where we are is somewhere quiet.

Somewhere along the outskirts of a border town between Thailand and Cambodia.

I'm walking along what should be a desolate road under the glow of a late afternoon sky,

In the near distance a flock of birds shroud past a little girl being pushed around in a wheelbarrow by her brother.

I don't hear anything, everything has the volume turned down,

Muted to a still silence, and it's then I realize I've lost the rest of my senses too.

All but my sight, which is fixated closely on the most genuine smile and happiness I've ever come to witness.

Here and now has never been more imminent, for the first time in my history I might actually just be living in the present.

Socrates consumed Hemlock,
Cleopatra embraced the Asp,
Alan Turing ate an apple laced with cyanide,
I, like those before me,
Have picked my poison;
An absinthe-eyed, quicksilver-tongued boy.
He was unsettled when I answered with the truth of his query,
Yes, he is poison,
I knowingly and willingly consume every drop of him,
Not all toxicity is solely adverse,
Radiation treats cancer,
Venom in low doses is an antidote,
Ethanol relaxes muscle and numbs the emotions.
He is my poison and my antidote,
He is the corrosive acid that dissolves gear-stopping rust,
I, in kind, am the poison apple of his eye,
Or so he says,
And so, we two, bask in the destruction of ourselves,
Consuming each other's pain, insecurity, madness, and lust,
Why is it that he, a poison, is the one I trust?