If you were lonely, or sad inside
Right next to you is where I'd be till the day I die.
I'd walk the 286 miles, from Bakersfield to Vegas
They would all laugh, but I would be shameless.
You are a great friend, one that cannot be replaced
My time with you, would not be put to waste.
Staying up all through the night
sitting in the dark without a light
Writing this poem, just for you
Hoping you will love this too
Those weeks we spent in a hellish place
I'd exchange for just a simple taste
To hold you close, never let go
To be the string, that holds your bow
To fight for you, hold your sword and shield
With only my heart in my hands to wield
I will try my best, to not let you get hurt
I'd pick you up, and dust off the dirt
For if you fall, it will be into my hands
I'd carry you across the sands
So Rosey Rosey come out to play
I won't be the one who betrays.
You know a secert of me noone else knows
One that I do not let show
But I am glad that you now know
I feel like I don't need to hide
Everything I am inside
Rosey Rosey Come out to Play
By your side is where I stay
waiting for you outside your home
Never leaving you alone
So Rosey Rosey, come to me
I want to give you a key
One that leads into my heart
One that can't be broken apart.
My shoulder is yours for your tears
Protecting you from all your fears
I will not allow you to fall back down
To the hole that is in the ground.
I will lend my helping hand
Pick you up to help you stand
Hoping that I can make you glad
So please cheer up, don't be sad
I promise that your smile will be real
Always stating how we feel.
So Rosey Rosey, open up
I will never let you up
I will give you all my time
So you know that you are mine.

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &