His eyes,a colder mint blue than you could imagine.
Her hair a darker colour than her soul.
When they collide,
sparks fly,
and they discontinue existence.
She shines when he stares,
He floats the way she falls.
They are so backwards but they're going in the right direction.

I grew up in the furnace, halfway towards homeless
with scars on my feet to show where running took place,
and feeble lies were told to strangers for
a laugh back when people used to
use people for comedy instead of
text and image and text...

Maybe I'm still lying.

Everyone knew that black and yellow
means "danger"; from
caution tape to wasps.
Smiley faces.
etc.

Held their teeth to the curb,
and their hands outstretched
far above their heads;
Never prayed for anything.
We were taught to stop wanting
what we couldn't get.
We learned.

Whatever was whatever
and was the war chant for
Afghanistan,
and when Bush Sr. decided
he could name wars as he saw fit
[As a friend calls it,
"Operation Desert Storm™"].

Devalued friendship
in case we had to run away.
Adapted, really.
Ran away.

Prayed for death.
Fell in love constantly.
Desperately tried to have a home.
Wanted a home.
Wanted something quiet.

Out of the furnace.

Pink noise in place of somber thought.
White noise in place of shelter.
Noise instead of feeling.
Noise,
and heat.

Some people spend years trying to find what they really want.
Nobody really knows if they are content with being content.
Married by twenty-five and three kids by thirty-three.
A nice suburban house with double doors and everything you've ever dreamed of in the hard wood floors of your newly renovated kitchen.
Your house is littered with toys that you don't even remember buying.
Constant arguments over why you spent two hundred dollars on a purse but you swear to God it's designer and completely worth it.
Your children are sneaking out at night and you snoop through your daughters diary because you say you think she's on drugs but really you are just nosy.
You have boring, repetitive missionary *** every other Tuesday and you are sure that *** didn't used to feel this dull.
Your children leave and you are left with a near empty house again.
You spend your time with golf and knitting class to try and fill the gaping hole left in your heart…
*******! There is a senior yoga class at the YMCA.
Your every breath is laced with worry of your offsprings in the real world.
You think back to when you were in high school and how you dreamed about being a ballet dancer.
Where has your life gone?
You can barely stand without the help of a cane because your knees are too old and creaky.
You can't even remember your old street name and your children stick you in a home because they can't manage with crazy old mom around.
They visit you once a month and eventually
you forget you even have children.
Your last couple of breaths are panicked and regretful.
You have your memories knocked back into you with the fear of a reaper.
You realized you never actually lived and you want to go back.
You dwell on every mistake and missed opportunity
You regret not following your dreams.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go back.
You want to go ba--

I want to use all the alterations, Personifications in the world to impress you.
I want to drive you insane with the oxymorons, the metaphors and the similes.
I want to use coliqual words so that I can make you think I'm extremely smart.
When really in reality I'm just average.
I want to use euphemism and lititoes to really make you think I'm that good with words.
When really in reality I have writers block yet I want to capture your attention.
I want to write an iambic tetrameter with the rhyme scheme ABAB so that you notice some part of me in my writing.
I want my words to ****** with your mind so that some part of you thinks about me...
But I have writers block, There's not much I can do to grab your attention.

We only connect when you cry it seems.
So many different stains on this bed,
and I wish you were here when I was
happy, but not smiling;
Any of the moments that would be
cheaper for sharing,
but stained if you were there, now.
Here, now.

I wonder, (now, and not often)
if those sheets hold more
tears, or *** fluids, or sweat.
I don't dream anymore, however.

I've never had a beautiful dream
about us, and when I did we were
awake
and a long time ago
we shared that common dream.
You don't even feign interest
in me anymore.

You watch me starve and carve myself into
morsels, easily digestible fragments,
and then turn over and, maybe praying,
though we swear we don't believe in god,
that I'll die mad and half naked in your sleep.

Some trees bear flowers and you'd swear
they die in winter and may never blossom again.
They freeze and turn into wonderful spidery things;
fingerbones strewn haphazardly on some streetlight.
Petals that were pink like new flesh,
rotten out of mind and existence.
I wonder what the blossoms become
when the tree sleeps.

Secluded seat,
behind shaded scenes.
Jiving Jazz Jams
ring my soul!
Trail of smokey
piped breathe.
This is where
my heart resides.
Hoping that
Heaven on Earth
isn't a dead scene.