Falling asleep at my keyboard
Writing another message to you
Wondering if I'm wasting my words with every keystroke
By trying to explain how I feel
Hope for mutuality

I fell asleep at the keyboard
Writing another message to you
My head hit the keys when I fell
It typed out a better explanation of my feelings for you

One. The warm touch of your hand meets mine and they fit together as if they were carved for this moment. Two. We step a little closer as we close this gap between our hearts and our bodies react as one. Three. Our eyes lock and gaze at each other as we see through a new pair of eyes as if we are meeting for the first time. Four. Across the way we glide together, never splitting and in perfect unison. Touch, of your hand on my waist, strong and sturdy to catch me when I fall. Step, we step apart as you turn me around and dip me low only the catch and hold me after. Lock, our souls lock together as this never ending moment keeps us living the fantasy that only few experience. Glide, we glide along for years to come and move swiftly by with much experience only learned from each other. Touch, step, lock, glide. Over and over till we become dizzy of our own movements. Touch, step, lock, glide. Touch grows soft and almost invisible. Step moves too fast to keep up and we make too many mistakes to get the rhythm back. Lock loosens and shatters as it falls. Glide sharpens as you fall away and I stumble to regain my balance. Touch disappears. Steps trips and off beat. Lock no longer there but an empty hole in it's place. Glide isn't smooth for I fall to the floor with a unmistakable blow. One. I feel for your touch but not finding one. Two. I take a step towards where your warmth used to fill the air. Three. I look for your gaze to lock with mine but don't find anything to hold on to. Four. I try to move as we once did and glide in circles but the movement is incomplete for there is nothing to fill the void. All I can do it close my eyes, go through the steps, and count to four.

For Alice (Who used to be me)

I have believed in fairy tales
Once I walked in worlds of rosy hue
I lived in Wonderland and Counterpane
dreaming dreams I knew would all come true

Morning turns to noon day to evening all too soon
Oz can turn to ashes in just a day
Princes return as frogs to their lily pads
Wonderlands Alice is a matron growing grey

No one comes to kiss the princess as she sleeps,
Knights in shining armor ride no more.
Tinker bell is dying with no one to believe.
The Mad Hatter is laughing at the door.

The dragon is not slain but lives in glory
Roxanne always marries Christian after all
Cinderella sits forever midst the ashes
Too late for Alice the door is much to small

The Emerald City's walls are bottle glass
And reality has crushed them neath its heel
The yellow brick road leads nowhere very quickly
And Alice knows that lonely is the only thing she'll feel

oh! let alice return to Wonderland again,
Away from the mud and slime outside the looking glass.
Life is much to large without that tiny door,
And she would seek the March Hares party where time will never pass.

Sumter, Gettysburg, Sherman's March,
Battles and fights, lives lost
Because of differences along the people.
Aren't people supposed to be different?

We, as a country, are not meant
To agree.
To belong in one room, repeating the same thing.
We will change the words.
Say them in a different order.
And men will die because of those words.
Those exact thought patterns.
Rights and laws are perceived
In different ways,
As well as morality.  

When it all began at Sumter, no one died.
It was a statement. A declaration of war.
At Gettysburg, it was a trick. A chilly,
Silly idea. And it was used to make
One of the greatest statements about war
Ever to leave someone's lips. Honoring
The dead and the living. The country and the people.
And the turning point of the fight between brothers.
Sherman's March was a move made by
The union as a mode of total war. Supply lines were cut and
Victory for the north was guaranteed.
Railroads were destroyed, towns were raided, and
Rebels were pushed east.
They had lost.

The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the **** 

The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.

Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.

it’s march twenty-third
a year from the day we began
and i’m laying in bed
in the early evening
and i didn’t even text you at midnight last night
to say happy anniversary and that i love you
and i have no idea where you are
or what you’re doing
and a train just went by
but you probably didn’t hear it
and it’s march twenty-third
but we haven’t spoken since september
and i miss you

Science taught me that eventually, everything dies and returns back into the Earth. I'm just writing on a piece of future compost to a person who's going to die. That's not a proper way to think, though. Right? I'm going to be older and look back at how I used to be and hate myself for being this sad.

People have been treating me like ****, and that's I have been beginning to feel. Like ****. You said you were coated in ****, but babe, I'm the human embodiment of it.

It's white outside. Whiter than the whites of your eyes. Whiter than this paper. Everything is white except for the bare branches of the trees and the outlines of the houses and street lamps in the distance. You would think this is a white world (it's more of grey-black slush), upon first looking. After your pupils contract and focus on the whiteness, you see the waves of snow blowing from left to right at a constant pace.

The trees outside look tired, branches limp instead of *****. How I'd love to be limp with them.

I want to go to the roof of a building and sit on the edge and feel the air pull at my feet.

I always shake my left foot, sometimes my right. It's my way of keeping part of my body constantly alive. I am alive. Plus, I'm a nervous wreck who is addicted to the beating of people's hearts.

I'm a vessel of those chills that crawl down your body.

Everyone told me how I looked cute today. I wonder if I'd still be cute if I gave them a tour of my mind.

The hair on my head is the home for my troubles.

Apparently my eyes haven't been that white, lately. The veins are prominent and I feel how bloodshot they are. Too many tears, no wonder I'm dehydrated.

I like seeing the silhouette of the trees outside through the cheap curtains of this hatred-filled school.

My handwriting is like a kiss and slap on the cheek at the same time.

I have always wondered why people kept track of the sunrises and sunsets. Night and day should be one. Goodbyes end, just get this one over with already. I wish we never knew the differences between seasons and days because then time would just be spent with others and budding flowers would be surprises.

It's March 12 and I feel like I've been 15 for longer than 10 days.

Kissing shouldn't be a big deal.

I want to tear up my clothes and wear them like it's a fashion trend.

My boots are worn out by my wandering mind.