I am the yo-yo, hooked to a piece of string.
You are the hand that pulls,
controls the whole mechanism.
As the hand pushes away,
the yo-yo distances itself;
just to be pulled back into the hand
with the slightest tug.
No matter how many times the yo-yo
spins away,
she is always found in the embrace
of the hand yet again.
And no matter how near or far
the hand is to the yo-yo
(or the yo-yo to the hand),
the two are always connected.

And I suppose that it is funny,
in a macabre sort of way
how we all forget the tale of Prometheus.
He who thought to bring gods level with men,
with a simple gift.
Yet his gift was one with no equal.
He gave mankind fire, that in turn gave us life,
and with life comes love, compassion, humanity.
But what did he recieve in return?
Thanks to his act of love
for his adopted progeny,
Prometheus was chained to a rock, destined
to die once every day.
His instestines,
set to be disgested by an eagle once a day.
His pain unrivaled,
for his original sin shed
light on our existence.
And for this, we write no songs,
we hold dear no poems,
we hallow no ground.
His flames gave birth to us,
and here we are,
choking on our own arrogance and hate.
So I suppose, that
in a sense Prometheus was the first nice guy,
who finished last.
Because being the Prometheus,
means there shall be no songs sung of you,
no poems written for you,
and you will be eclipsed by others.
Your deeds will go unloved,
your accolades will go unnoticed.
The world is a mean place,
and however cruel it is,
sometimes being and doing right
gets you nowhere.

Your couch has gone from
Mysterious to
Comfortable, quickly to
Inviting, and then
Peaceful,
Becoming necessary and
Right before my eyes it changes to
Lusting, then a chance of
Loving, and back to lusting, until
Another wide turn to the start:
Mysterious.
But it never goes back to
Comfortable again, it is
Frightening, another change
To inevitable,
Controlling to
Addicting, and soon
I am thinking in
Circles, back to lusting,
But the couch has stayed
The same, and
It is only me who is seeing things
Differently

You grabbed me by the arm
Pulled me down to the bed
Pressing your lips fiercely against mind
Blocking any words from escaping
You had no desire to know
Any whom had been you before

Your head rests on my chest
Curled up against me
The perfect kind of warmth
I ask you for a name
You let out a laugh
And said I needn't worry about that

We fall asleep in each other's arms
Peace at last
The perfect end to a wild night
And when I awake, you are gone
Nothing remains but the scratches on my back
And the haunting smell of roses, lingering in my bed

my thoughts swell from the bottom of my chipped mug
and splatter onto the dog-eared pages of my favorite book

they skip along the rainy streets in a meticulous pattern,
always traveling two steps forward,
one step back

my thoughts dart around that same right corner,
and recall the coy smiles,
searching this time for unread signs

they approach your familiar face with intention,
again trying to see what you do
through those pale eyes

i can’t help but wonder
if your thoughts have wandered
as far as mine

The pursuit of perfection has always confused me
Everyone striving to become more than themselves
And while this sounds very noble
It really boils down to
"Enough is never Enough"
Because in this endless race to become everything
We forget what it was like when we were something
So we trudge forward ignorant of our passing joys
Only aware of our seemingly constant suffering
And suddenly, without warning
We find ourselves lacking in what matters most
Too often we find ourselves hating, loathing, depressed
Because we realized we failed to achieve what we sought
When really all we ever needed
Was to look inside ourselves
And discover that it is not our weaknesses that made us imperfect
But that our broken bits and flaws
Made us into something
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