i want to be a great poem on the book of this world and i want seaside and sunshine and less of this melancholy because the earth is spinning way too fast and i'm starting to feel it in my brain, my brain is the sun and it's burning through and now i'm on fire and the fire will eat me alive

like you ate me alive in the shadow of your house on that cold winter day, you swallowed me up like a shark in the ocean and your hands were cold and your lips were cold and my body was cold it was all so cold because winter was coming from inside of me and it wasn't a season it was just me

being a season can change you, and since i wasn't summer i wasn't loved by children or school kids, i was death and i was snowdrifts and 9 am phone calls of car crashes from ice, i was wet that chilled your bones and put all of your fires out and i was there in the frost and windchill of 60 miles per hour

you drove me in your car to the hospital faster than 60 miles per hour that one day when i took too many pills and i asked you if it was okay for me to die and you said absolutely not because i was the reason behind your heartache and you didn't want it to be dull pain for the rest of your life

*(a.m.c.)

every time i see your headlights come up the road
and pull into my drive
my stomach turns and my heart races
just like the first time i saw them

The transgressions of utter here and nowity
Unbeleivable longing for a collapsing norm
On the altar of self destruction and causal
Reciprocity fluttering on rebirthed dreams

You can sing and love these colorful birds
Vibritang meticulously with rare palpitations
Of greater bodies, which dust is a part of us
Delusional creatures, flying on the grandeur

Non reachable to written words, stellar ink is
Spilled, playing on the shores of ever returning
Waves of transformation; Shapes dance within
Your gaze, telling the story of water coy stillness

Unmovable we move on, unlovable we love hope
Clinging to tree roots and blood veins as clothes
Warm our trembling fragile figures travelling on
And on into the higher realms of transfiguration.

They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.

Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.

The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.

She loves deep
Hates even deeper
Rejection is near
And scares her
A last resort
She's desperately in need
Of something to lift her up
Stop the chance that she'll bleed
It's a scary life she leads
She runs, she pushes and she cries
It's more than she can handle
But she continuously tries
She asks herself these questions
How does she survive?
How does she fake the lies?
What could she possibly do
To hide her truth in disguise?
There is no where left to run
Her fears are all coming true
She knows her life is coming undone
There's nothing left she can do
The life she had is finally through