We were both in such a dark place,
looking to feel anything.
And while you were looking,
I guess you found me.
We tried to **** happiness into each other,
**** the sadness away.
But no matter how many nights of
hot moans and heaving breathing on my neck,
nothing changed how we felt.
I found my way out of that hell,
but you buried yourself in it long ago,
but today your body joined you.
And I know I can work magics but
oh my gosh Ben,
not even I can **** the life into you now.

Letting go is the wind during a storm, your emotions playing a tug of war.
No she isnt ready, let her grieve, let the stars give her a sign when she may start to be her old self again.
But what if this old self does not exist anymore. this new one is the real you,formed by tears, divorce, death, drinking and things your eyes cannot unsee. your friends say
"why are you so quite today?whats wrong"
i feel like shouting "DO YOU EVEN KNOW ME."
what if i want to be secluded in my own thoughts.
im still grieving
Let Me Remember What Could Have Been.

Her eyes are blank like glass stones
And I have no words to soften them.
Panic and pain paint her visage gravely.
I think she can still see me,
But in her insanity nothing registers.
Decrepit vessel of lost wisdom;
Empty orbs with no more vision,
This is worse than death.
It is a slow loss with creeping expectations.
It is a deep cost that clears my pockets,
And empties my reserve of will.
This is grief in the eyes of the giver,
And grief in the eyes of the receiver;
Sorrow for the lost and for the ones
Who are bound to leave her.
In short breaths this is goodbye.

Beep
Beep
Beep

And it's thanksgiving

Beep
Beep
Beep

The parade is geared to go
And you,
In your dress of white
More beautiful
Than every day
Of spring
Combined

Your hands like ice.

Beep
Beep
Beep

fluorescent lights
And glossy eyes,

My love,
I wish we had more time.

step back, correct your own mistakes
respect our mourning, don't deflect what you'll regret in the end
you haven't only disrespected us, you've neglected taking into consideration my fathers wishes.
take care of us
being unaffected shows your carelessness.
cause' we won't stick around forever, now remember never bring another man into this home.
Its your house, but our home.
why can't you ask yourself, what would dad think about this
he is gone, but not a moment is forgotten.
you've crossed a line, you can't come back from.

IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

i'm awake.
i shouldn't be, but here i am,
floating in condensed night, wondering
where my body went,
and why i'm awake at all,
when i hear it again -- the herald of my awakening:
a voice softly whispering my name
my entire name
me
without a choice, i am pulled into the speaker's presence
and i swallow
because, if it was anyone, it would be him, wouldn't it?
he's clutching his pillow and he shudders and if i were able to speak,
i'd joke that he should really learn to be quieter when he does this
i'd tease him about the clamminess of his skin
i'd say his full name slowly, roll it around my mouth, part my lips and say it huskily
like i wanted nothing else but him
                                                  (it's not hard to act out the truth)
these are the things i would do if i could speak; as a silent spectator,
i'm forced into sobriety,
into knowing he's not jackin' off at all
he's crying
desperate, disgusting sobs
every shudder spikes through me and i have to leave
i'd rather stay asleep for a millennium then to be the object of his
broken affection

Those stones I think about everyday
Bill Perry and his posses' never hidden truth, endear each soldier down to rest
He gathers people near and far to plant the seeds of a golden star

A golden star not of shame
A golden star all the same
We watch and see the people cry to touch their loved ones long gone by

On stones these fingers do caress
On stones I feel the emptiness
On stones that should not be
On stones of a written eulogy

A bugle echoes taps to all
A boatswain pipe returns its call
To salute our gone by kindred all...