For her
he was always the man
on the other side of the table.

He was fond of it that way
so he could see her face
read the shades and lights
crack jokes through the grim times
when on the table was little
brimmed plenty in their hearts
and her tears when flowed
were not of unfulfilled needs
but a happiness she couldn’t grasp.

She doesn’t know
what she misses is love
or a mere habit.

She only knows
food doesn’t taste the same
without the man
on the other side of the table.

You talk about my writing like you could do better. Write your emotions in a symphony and play it so I can hear. Pour yourself through a pencil and see where you go. Read my past and tell me there is a difference. No art is different. From writing to speaking and drawing, art will forever remain the same. Our styles speak louder than our words so take caution for next time I promise I won't hold back.

It's stayed stuck in my eyes,
The vision of you walking home
As the old school buses, sluggish
And scattered yellow passed
You by on the infinite road.

     I wasn't following you, I smile.
You don't know how crystal clear
     I remember you.

From the bottom of my soul
A fresh evocative scent forms,
One I can see ,touch, and hear,
I could smell it even today,
I take it with me everyday
Under the maddened carousel
        Of this life.

I am the same wild guy
     Who brought you to his side years ago,
In those moments we are forever.

i'm starting to believe in the theory that i'm
a ghost. now i've become desensitized to my
footsteps aside from being drunk, and who
knows if i'm making all of those sounds up?
it's all starting to sound like harsh noise.

people have started to be scared of getting
close to me, because they've felt how cold
the air around me is. i've practiced covering
for my demons, but now it's getting rough.

i'm starting to lose sight of why i'm here
because people are losing sight of me. i
am a chameleon. i disappear, and no sane
person wants to look for the lost ghost.

the people who do not see through me paint
smiles on their faces, and pretend i am not an
open casket funeral. my cries for help become
blurred by the river of denial they drown in.
the longer you keep your eyes open under
water, the more it burns. the longer you wait
for the buzzards, the more likely they'll come.

the longer i wait to bury the skeletons under
my bed and in my closets, the higher they'll
stack. i need to erase all of those skeletons.

i need to begin erasing myself.

- kra