“I think there’s something wrong with you and that’s okay,” she sings with all her heart
and strums the guitar with my pick.
I’m in charge of the chords,
holding the guitar so
she can reach it where she sits.
We dream it up together, but
I phone it in
I admit.

A, D, E - 1, 4, 5 -
arbitrarily chose.
She keeps it alive with her prose
Just 5 years old
A poet with her eyes closed.

You can be anything you want to be, and that’s okay as long as you’re happy.

Like she knows
The greatest longings of the whole of humanity,

Like she’s peered into the depths of the vast ocean of broken hearts,
And know this is the best place to start…

Like it’s easy.

“It’s okay”, she sings with closed eyes,
and strums the guitar in musical bliss.

And it is. For that moment. For a heartbeat.

It is.

Do you, too, like to stare at the moon,
chandeliers and *** lights?
when your eyes feel
like they belong to a sculpture
stuck in place, tunnel vision
Do you, too, make moonlight out of street lamps,
and use dreams to feed the craving
of meaningful existence?

Matter of
perspective
For me
It is
But maybe
For you
They are all
Just a blur
And I
am but
a speck

Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.

Angst

He loves his boy drunk,
and in the dark.
The scent of fresh spirits clinging to his tongue as he whispers his insecurities into the shadowed night.
His hands wrapped around the fragile boys arms, even though they shouldn't,

because this boy, his boy, is too bright, too precious to loosen the grip he has.
While he is made up of stolen cigarette smoke and bruised knuckled smiles, the love he has conjured up is beyond magic.

He lusts his boy sober
and dawn breaks through the curtained room.

Coffee engulfs the narrowed hallways and the creaking wooden board is the only sound heard besides soft snores.
He looks away from the paled soul, loosens his touch
and each time he gets up and leaves, he breaks both their hearts.
don't you know you can love him with the lights on too?