im chasing the attention you give me
beg for it, desperate for the warmth you offer
your smile makes me feel like im facing the sun
and i've been in the cold for so long

you look at me as if i've put the stars in the sky
trace my fingers in empty moments
admire me when i look away
yet my brain knows to be cautious,
despite all the green flags and the soft words
im scared to be loved

but i want to be loved by you.

What of a love unspoken?
A mutual feeling, both parties are too scared to name?
Can it live without a title?
Or will it cause pain if claimed?

What is a love unspoken?
Deep conversations in the dead of night,
The moonlight revealing the man under the bravado.

Something with slight glances,
And smiles,
His words are truth,
A reflection of him,

The best of him,
And his love,
Unspoken,

Where in this moment,
Love is enough for him to give,
And nothing even matters outside the world that we’ve created.

What of our love unspoken?
Are all your actions intentional to keep this sacred thing going?

Can it continue to bloom in secrecy when the world attempts to spoil it?

What of our love unspoken?

Will a title to this unknown love halt the growth of something beautiful?

Will it die as heartbreak, and named?

Left to the wind to rot in silence,
As we pretend that nothing happened with halfhearted, unimpressed glances?

What of this love unspoken?
Untitled but noticed
Simple yet wonderful
And to my knowledge
Final

I know that love is complicated,
But my heart speaks with honesty on this bond formed in secrecy,
It's truth when I say our hearts were destined one day to be,

What of a love unspoken?

You gild my haunted mind like Carnegie's ghost
A shining parenthesis for brass-poisoned dreaming.
I wish I could reach my rhizomes through time like you do--
          or space, even!
I want to watch you do anything.
  Fill a Passchendaele shell-hole with
  your triumphant tears; heal it, like it's easy.
I want to watch you do anything
  Stretch your Mud & Slush smile from the Esplanade-Riel
  across Minnesota and then right through me.

Reframe my failings, won't you?
(If that's what you think they are)
Or rewire my frowning night times, at least?
Spread me thin across your time, if you like;
but let me have some.

Find some worth, won't you?, in my fraying wires
  my decaying lines of code,
  my fear of success?

I have only my vagueness, and banks of bad metaphors
to measure against the tradewinds you blow across my minute bow.
You are such victory, such mighty reaching.
     Don't fault me my anxiety.

All eyes narrowed on The One
Here comes the voting, voting
Tongues poised for validation,
Ever doting, devoting.

To keep us all in check, below,
The arena's set of old man lies, lies
Confidence overflows,undeserved
Them ego's high, so fight.

Dying slowly from lack of oxygen
Stench of fakery, faking
I've only ever wanted real connections
And for that I'm broken, breaking.

Leak into another night
     I am dead mechanical
Cut black lines into my skin
     Tattoo me with asphalt
Touch my face one time--kiss me goodbye with an insult
          I'm just fading tail lights
          It isn't my fault.

               Your fingertips are tracing something...
         And my reddened eyes are craving something...
     Some might hope for for the weather's improvement,
                        but, me?, I'm hard in love
                        with the cold front that's
                                     moving in.

Let me crawl across the sky--
     a skull coated in red wine.
The Titan's getting tipsy.
     I'm at home in the sweating night.
Cracked my ribs one time, kissing asphalt on Orange Street
          Then I had to stand up
                    screaming
      after sweating through sheets!

                My memory surrendered something...
            Your frozen face was mending something...
        Might have hoped for condition's improvement,
                        but, me?, I'm hard in love
                           with my aching--that's
                                     all I am.

Dead Mechanical
     Romanticize it.
Dead Mechanical
     I can't eclipse it!
Make me fiction, or ***** my fingertips.
     Let me lie. I am Dead Mechanical.

it's the most heart wrenching thing
he forced his way back in again
thought i was safe in my dreams
but it seems he's still haunting me

can't shake the feeling of his touch
i wouldn't call what we had 'love'
younger me didn't know enough
to get out of that hole i'd dug

Some nights into the fantasy  world I sink ,
Eyes closed as I visualize you each second ,
The shape of your body-
your sensitive skin.

Lost in your eyes,
I stretch my hand and pull you closer,
Your body against mine,
Our lips touch,
Our tongues entangled,
The soft and slow moans fill our room,
As we dance to the music of our sweet sounds,

From a far-
we can  hear our heartbeats,
as our souls sync.

Into the wilderness we fly,
If this love is a sin ,
why does it feel so pure
and holy  loving you?

The morning sun reflects
Across the leaves of the red-tipped photinia,
Flowing forth to accent the brilliant
White of the oak leaf hydrangea.

Peacefulness rests solidly on the scene.
There is time for talk and a chance to listen.

Life is calm, except for the roughness at the edges.
Disagreements suddenly become prominent.

How does one disagree?
When do topics become as rough as sandpaper?
How hard does one scrape the soft edges of ideas?
If rubbed too deeply, do emotions sour, curdling like overnight cream left unrefrigerated?

Can we play with these ideas like juggling bottles in the air?
If they are dropped, are they erroneous, becoming shards swept to the garbage?

Righteousness and reason override relationships. We must think alike if we are to be maintained.

Midday has arrived; sunshine dominates. Hydrangeas and the red-tipped leaves now glow the shade of seafoam,
Shining as clearly as a meadow.

Have our ideas become more lucid, more detailed, more correct?
Were we willing to discard what was deemed baggage, too wrong to carry beyond today?  

What too has become of us together? Did our arguments massage so intently our intellects that the bruising might not heal?

What is it like to be a prophet?
To bleed visions the world calls madness,
to carry the storm in your lungs
and still be asked to speak sweetly.

I ran.
Through temples, through time, through the mouths of sleeping gods.
I ran, hoping to outrun the fire,
only to find my shadow already waiting-
etched into every horizon by hands not my own.

The gods marked me with knowing,
then stripped me of the right to be believed.
They call it a gift.
But it is a wound that sings.

Let the sky tremble at my silence now.
Let the earth remember what it means
to be cursed with truth.