a year ago, my writing was purple prose.
last month, it was filled with forced rhymes and capitals.
yesterday, it was pompous.
today, it's just novice.
right now, it's terribly trite.
on my death bed, I'll know it'll be all I have.

What is a pout?
What is a pout if your lips
are not there to kiss it?
Non-existent.
It isn't anyone's invitation
but yours.
So let blushing pilgrims
host a wedding with
dark colors and no guests
but your lips and this pout.
You may now kiss.

I stare into you, you into me.
And I see a language that isn't written
in the books that you read.
Or even in the words that you had conceived,
and hid away so carefully, to be unbelieved.
In your stare I am told a story, and reminded of a need,
that I also find within myself, for these words to be freed.
And in those eyes I found that these lips came to stutter,
when I asked you how many confessions could a gaze ever utter?
After a night of staring deeply into each other,
you replied, "Many," and made my heart sputter, murmur, flutter,
and then dip into the gutters, and sit in a messy clutter.
Daddy, you made me melt, I swear this isn't butter.
All for a second, I knew, you knew and we knew one another,
and I wished, you wished, and we wished to be called, lovers.

When you live inside the hole,
your fingernails are short and your feet are flat.
The climb is only as high as you let your gaze rise.
The meager buckets of rations fill you until you wait for them.
No longer do you wait for Clarise.
You see his face that once brought you fear of captivity,
But now it only brings you utmost desire.
Your world is the hole and **** because you're limbs are sore and ripped.
When is the next time you see him again?

I was going to sit here on this sun drenched bench,
and write about how upset I am,
but the ample lighting licking my wounds,
the whistling winds kissing my cheeks,
and the colorful campus folk walking around with unspoken stories,
made me forget all about it.

I remember when my feelings for you were diluted with the desire to be drunk and careless.
Part of me wishes to return to a summer night where it didn't matter whether you responded back to my beckoning,
because I'd never be as lonely as that makes me feel now.

I'd forget things,
but they're much worse to discover again.