a blank page,
waiting to be filled,
waiting to be violated and blemished,
waiting to carry every single last burden
it stays waiting, because i can't
seem to reach my expectations
it will never be enough
and i will always come up short
with that puzzled look on my face,
like i didn't know this would happen
like i had no idea at all

but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.

Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.

My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.  
Sometimes no lights.  
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.

I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.

                  And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
                 dressing up the few and far
                  spaces as ghosts between worlds,
                 or something mundane as impossibly important.
               I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
                I'm some ******* who thinks art is everywhere

As the bliss of midnight approaches them
The clouds shed the light of a cold moon

Leading their lives together, the end is gone
And the illusion they feel,
Cannot be repeated

Drying is the fluid of love,
Solidifying and holding them still in time,
Longing for the night to persist.

They know the morning approaches,
The expectation of the sunrise means an end.
The end of night is the end of all time,
And as unfathomable as eternal endings are, it still ensues

Moon setting,
Sun rising,
The contradicting feelings swim,
Uncertain of the future their love has ended.

The bliss of her death, as the blood runs down his fingers, consumes him, and the sharp pain absorbs him.

Until the night and cold moon flash again
The two will lay with security as true as the sky is broad.

It's not that
I have nothing
Flowing through my mind
It is simply that
I have too many thoughts
Ideas and images
And I currently seem
Incapable of sorting them out
Into anything worth
Expressing poetically
It's hard to write
When conflicted
And bombarded
By endless emotions
That are always changing
With new information
There is plenty I can say
I simply fear
The emotions and words
Will be to jumbled to
Enjoy
Or to successfully
Express how I'm feeling.