i'm gonna write a poem,
and i'm gonna call it
Untitled
because that is what it is.
Kind of like the way we were,
untitled.
We were nonchalant and no big deal,
and i guess you expected it to be the same
when you left.
but it's not.
Now we know why I need
a title.

Slowly
                  you tear me apart
                                                           ­ by every word
                                                            ­                                         you wouldn't say
                                                              --

Leave me here,
In this room with no color.
In this room where the clock keeps ticking
and the television only plays static.

Here I sit in silence,
Nothing to comfort me.
No food to eat and nothing to drink.
No way out, just one way in.

I lay with my head down on a cold table,
below the air conditioner vent.
There's either a dozen pair of eyes staring,
or six people turning away.

If they could, my hands would reach out.
Yet I lack the vigor and I lack the strength.
Seems I've left myself at home,
Because I'm not entirely here.

a pencil
a paper
but no eraser
i need help

He is the wild one: one of few; forbidden to the duty of wages and plagued with presence of good mind. governed by the laws of responsibility. strongly abide, to time, as does that of passing tide. to the strength of his scripts, morals guide, his ethics incline. the power within he seeks--his depth, miles beyond the measures of mind. alone he walks with faith, in his experience gained through the knowledge of time. his character  unyielding without purpose amongst the many; blind eyes gossip-- within small circles of selfishness. he thrives within the realms of reality-- clarity he seeks, to understanding he is bond.

I once thought you were everything.
Turns out you're less than nothing.