I must hurry to the meeting
In the committee room,
We'll vote on closure
Of the heart,
Get back to work by noon.
All the players are present,
We're sitting side-by-side,
I'm next to an idiot,
Beside myself
With opinions that collide
Within myself,
About myself,
Infused with self,
I'm the chair of the meeting,
The only one in the room.
My many colored selfish life
Has left my heart forlorn.
We take a vote
To remove the chair,
His outlook
Is too biased;
He had a heart per diem,
Mismanaged in a poem.

We thought owing this world
Would bring us to owning

You've seen a mother
Nursing a child,
Giving freely
Of herself.
So altruistic,
She finds maternal pleasure
Through nurturing.

My close friend
Gave his son a kidney.
His very own *****,
Putting himself in jeopardy
For his son's prosperity.
The pleasure of altruism
Wasn't lost on me.

Have you seen the picture
Of the man on the cross.
He wears a smile
Behind his blood mask.
He found pleasure
In offering salvation.
No greater gift,
Can be bestowed
From man, woman or god,
Than the innate pleasures
Of self-sacrifice.

For every time that I felt sadness and grief
I wondered why you couldn’t get over your own
A lady who walked alone thinking of her lost husband
Said I was destined to bury understanding with my bones

I heard a song that was unfamiliar to me
It was in a language that cried out to those who know
A man who once sang that very song to his children
Wondered if anyone would care about foreign tales of woe

I walked alone watching a young man
He felt the confidence that only ignorance can provide
But he mocked me with his very presence
I knew what I knew but still I felt old on the inside

But then the sun rose once again
And what it was came to me when I was awake
But I could not decide between sorrow or joy
Because the day had not yet come for God’s sake

He told me that he is burning alive,
not literally, but inside. Said that he
feels palpitations every time he thinks
he might go back;

like his heart is a jarful of moths,

beating against glass.
I told him we are all breakable,
but that he is going to make it through.

He asks me if monks can really
spontaneously combust. I reply, no,
but they light themselves on fire.
It’s a way of protest. He says oh.

He then says, I want to protest

against Adderall, Cymbalta, and
Marijuana: he still can’t focus, still
can’t be happy, and being high is
a minor fix. I don’t know what to say.

We sit silent for a while. I ask him
what depression is like. He laughs
and says, it’s like a really drawn out
stubbed toe, only it’s in your head

and no matter how much you curse
you think the pain will only get worse.
It always does too. I just want to die.

The next day he scorched himself.
Someone called 911 and reported a man
walking out of a pawn shop

with a jar full of something dead

and then poured
gasoline over his head and lit a lighter.
I cried. I wondered if there were wings

still fluttering when he burst into ash.
He could have at least saved what little
flight he had left, what little life, for me.

I know that you love me. It's as sad as it is true
because even though I want it, it's not something I can do.
I can love you with my hands, but never with my heart,
it's a twisted kind of loving, that I've made into an art.
I can make you cry my name, until it's branded in your mind.
Although it is unholy, I promise it's divine.
My voice will stalk your memories. My kiss will haunt your lips.
The ghost of a touch, tormenting your skin, left by my fingertips.
A warning wrapped in velvet, sugar coated sin,
the threat of your heart breaking, doesn't stop the want within.
And even though I warn you, it won't make you go away
because despite the fact of things I lack, you still want to stay.
Yes it's selfish, to say the least, but I can't say that I care.
This loneliness of the flesh is more than I can bare.
So listen to me closely, to my siren's sultry song,
I only need this one night, to feel like I belong.
I'm sorry that you love me, and that it's something I can't return,
but come to me, and I'll show you how it feels to truly burn.
When I go, there is one thing I shall both take and leave
The gift of never loving again that was bestowed on me.