Her lips
bring me to my knees.
Light me up like kerosene.
And if mine were to meet them again,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that I can bring her to her knees just as well.

I love every part of her,
from the hottest crevasse to the coldest shoulder,
and if it were to turn my way again,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that my shoulders were made for her arms to rest on.

Her laughter is a music
that whisks me away to far off worlds,
and if a fool’s incantation will make it sound,
I’d pull her in close and remove all doubt
that I am a fool for her and always will be.

This city is full of fog,
my lungs are full of smoke,
and the irony of the gloom is that I ran back here to catch my breath.

I lost a battle,
but instead of a proud warrior's death,
I got 2 dollars in my bank account
and a futon that gives me lower back pain.

Time is the one commodity we all seem to have
yet the one we're most afraid of losing.
So when clocks tell me to go to sleep
instead of telling me the time, maybe I should listen
instead of laying awake giving it terrible Yelp reviews.

But I'm just out here looking for a purpose,
other than being lovesick with no insurance,
and in no way
do I have the copay,
but if you ask me, it's still worth it.

She puts her signals in a blender,
mixed to perfection.
Best chased with a bottle of wine.
The cheaper stuff.  She doesn't intend it to last.

She dances between moments;
memories that lodge in your brain and heart,
impervious to even the sharpest of chisels.
She doesn't intend those to last either.  Or does she?

She locks herself up high in a stone fortress.
Like Rapunzel with better hair, she keeps it all to herself.
It's impossible to climb, but I made it up there once,
because in those moments, I swear I could fly,
so I must have, up to the top, where she keeps her heart.

But those moments were just that.  Moments.
A fleeting wink in a brief gaze, from the best-made eyes
in existence.
And I lay now, in the trenches below,
fallen.  But am I defeated?
I can't tell because I'm still looking up there,
where her eyes pass to the next person who dare try to fly,
and I haven't looked away,
because I'm afraid,
that if I do I'll find
I left my heart up there too.

Promises are a liar's favorite tool.
It's the last thing they use to get you to believe them.
A hundred lies at a thousand words per minute,
all put into a single sentence.  A million times.

Fathers promise to always be there for their children.
Lovers promise it was only you, and the next one it's only them.
Drug addicts promise this is the last time.

Everything that was ever promised to me, I never received.
Because that is the nature of promises; a tickle of tongue in ear,
a muffled moan of affirmation, and a harsh wrenching of heartstrings.
Not to say I'm a victim of circumstance; I've just made promises too.

So you can promise me whatever you want.
I promise you it won't work.
We'll both be wrong.

A man in love is hardly a man these days.

We're supposed to play in sports, fight in wars,
cover ourselves in tattoos and bedsores.
Say "yes, sir" to the more stoic man,
find things to **** and never hold hands.

We are the knives at the table, not the big spoon.
Why are you still in her bed? Don't you dare say "I love you."

But what if I say no?
What if I want a hand to hold?
What if I have a better cause to call my own
and this light-beer ******* is getting old?

I won't buy what your selling.  I found a better deal.

It's in the way I shake instead of sleep at night;
it's the way I feel when I look into her eyes;
when I hold the door open to catch a smile,
and maybe I want her to stick around a while.

You think you know America? You think you know men?
Well I think you should take your guns and put them to your head.
A real man is one who loves without regret.
So I am a man, not your ******* pet.

If forgiveness is the greatest gift you can give
you clearly haven't earned enough.
I've never needed it,
now or ever,
apart or together,
hell, the only thing I wish for more than the obvious
is slightly better weather.

You might think you're a benevolent god
but the moment she leaves you'll realize
you're one of them:  the lowest of the low,
delivering the lowest of the blows.

I once lost my fortress in the sky
to a giant who moved in
and hoarded all of his gold,
all the shiny and delicious things
he could find, taken as his own.
And if anyone tried to take it back,
he'd swallow them whole.

He loved suffering, so he'd
watch them chew themselves for him.

And you know what I did?
I didn't forgive him.
I loved him instead.
I don't think my forgiveness
is a priceless gift.
If an ant forgave you for crushing it,
would you care any more or less?
Love carries much more weight,
just like giants, and ants, do.

So when the torch you carry forgets to stay lit,
you should've gotten a smartphone instead.
Save your forgiveness for the ants.
I'd rather have the gold.

I'm a sinking stone, this I know,
because I fell to the bottom and I'm starting to erode.
I can't feel at home
when she's not alone.
It's useless, I know.

I'm a cracking stone, this I know,
because I like to love until I explode.
And with no container there to hold,
I fall apart and my cover is blown.
It's pathetic, I know.

I'm getting better, you should know;
searching for a good way to cope.
I'm turning my wheels, mending the spokes
by inking my blood into words of hope.
I'm stronger than I know.