Piles of unfinished, unfilled, untold notebooks,
Stack high upon the stand,
Whispering their pleas deep into the night.


Write for me, if you will write at all, one begged,
For in I, you once wrote,
"I don't believe in good and evil,
It seems a heavy sort of burdance to put on four little letters."

My story is incomplete,
I am not done speaking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Nay, write for me, another argues,
For in I, you once wrote,
"Your worlds isn't in danger because I came, as you believe.
I came because your world is in danger."

My story is not over,
I am not done telling,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Write for none other then I, a different insists,
For in I, you one wrote,
"Life's for the living, the laughing, the chance takers, the gamblers of love.
If you must obsess on one thing, as you surely do, then go live it."

My story has not ended,
I am not done talking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.


Whispering scrawls filled the night,
Overlapping, strangling one another,
Until all that could be heard,
Was the gentle breathing of pages.

time leaving

traces everywhere

victims never

to be avenged

time cannot

be hold it can

be classified

never arrested

and if doing some

serious thinking

we last but the

length of a breath

time shows itself

and swiftly go

on borrowed dreams

he said we are made

with the same atoms

as the sun and the stars

that a small part of him

could have been a star

long ago now fallen

on this solid planet

yet not having

a light of its own

he was afraid he

may fly apart

anytime once

more into the

finest powder

a tear in my eyes

as I dive into

deep thoughts

he never ceases

to surprise me

not sure if it’s a song

my ear gathers or a

story gently murmured

out of the blue water

sailing between ridges

innumerable notes

I listen to these secret

codes I lightly stare

at the creases an

opening on the

improvising

let me wear existence

to move easily around

infinitude of problems

mind never ceasing

grudges uttered

between harsh words

I forgot I was once clad

with petals and blossoms

delicate easing out

fragrances as dreams

you don’t pay attention

nor have some sense

of smell no more sense

ordinary days of wasting

away in full daylight

allow me to dive

beneath the surface

of things told once

into a stream of

unconsciousness

into a sea of muffled

noises moving

slowly within a

smile performed

with my eyes as

you watch me

desiring sleep

what makes

the difference

between a word

and a scream

the curiosity

of seeing behind
past knowledge

to have the gaze

of who had never been

troubled by notions

foggy clouds
of opinions to be

carried away

swiftly over

the land disappearing

now light as dust

They say the pen is mightier than the sword
If this is true then God was the sword and you were a pen
And I was the pencil who laid you a foundation of erased mistakes only for you to trace upon them as if they didn't exist.
And I was cast in the bottom of some cluttered bag
while you were gently capped and placed in a box lined with blue silk,
And you knew I would always be there to test the waters before you spilled the pages with your brash delicacy.
But you needed me and I craved you for completion.
Together we created sweeping illustrations and lengthy novels with dozens of sequels.
We depicted a tale of modern love in our ball-pointed journey.
But my graphite stayed intact while your ink started to run out.
I could see as our pages unfolded that your colors no longer spread as boldly.
You became more and more invisible as I desperately etched harder and harder into every page hoping to give you clearer guidelines
but you no longer had it in you.
And soon enough we couldn't make anything beautiful.
You had run out.
And I'm still hopelessly drawing maps desperate that you can regain what you once had and use the indentations on previously blank pages to find your way back to me.

i hear the lady in french- but cannot listen.
my heart is beating slowly. the fear has seeped in.
the snow falls steady- we’ll be snowed in,
busting secrets, let’s not keep them.
let’s not keep them.

stumble into freshman notebooks.
discover nothing fresh or ripe.
but something stewing, something rotten.
something worth it- worth some talking.
now i’m laughing.

your uninspired, murmured sleep.
my tapping toes, so off-beat.
teach me rhythm, i lose it fast.
forgot how to flirt and picked up class,
something worth it- let’s not keep it.