From the time I fell for you,
I knew to me you meant something more,  
Like your every little thing I've come to adore,
By my side, you are a strength I lack alone,
Having known your grace,
Without you is all but an existence.
Of late I realise I tend to live in an illusion,
Like how I put you on a pedestal,
When all you wanted was to be by my side,
I regret to think I was wrong about being right,
I do keep hurting you, don't I?
This sparse acknowledgement you make of my existence,
Will always remind me to look before I fall again.

Such is the fate that defines,
I have all I need, not what I want,
I will still laugh it off,
Tell myself I’m not the only one lonely,
It happens to everyone sometime,
Then I feel to me it happens every other time,
Unable to hate everything despite being in silent misery,
I’m afraid I will get used to it,
Where the world doesn’t stop without you,
But it’s not the same as with you,
In glints of light I imagine your eyes sparkle,
But then everything I call beautiful,
Reminds me of you.

it was a dry winter
he sang "*** and candy" as i braided my hair
we'd never dwelt so far apart
oceans between us while sharing a bed

he bought me rain-boots for christmas
desert dwellers have little use for rain-boots at the end of december
but i smiled because it didn't matter

he could never see me
only aknowledged the static space i inhabit
his empty eyes sang symphonies in the silence

we were young
and the world refused to cease it's spinning
despite our sea-sick cries while faking love

even the rustiest carousels chase their tails long after the waiting line is rendered empty after dusk

the secret to life inside our discarded cigarette cartons
the history at the bottom of the beer pitcher

it was our hell
our own private galaxy doing pirouettes on the sidelines of time
we aged like newspapers hidden in the hedges

but we meant it
or at least we thought we did
whatever it was
we meant it

the way that one means it when they say they wished they'd died the morning after dollar beer night

it felt right
no matter how bad it always hurt

for the past few weeks,
my daily caloric in-take has consisted of nothing but caffine,
nicotine,
and a good bit of ****-
if that counts.
i've been bogged down by a few pounds of literary build-up,
clinging to my cell walls.
characters and commas,
just pleading to be plucked from their scatter-brained current state of nothingness,
and be re-arragned-
brought to life by a breath of structure
and fore-head kiss of charm.
writer's block.
an itchy wool blanket of complacent composition blues
draped over my freckled shoulders,
in hopes of sheilding me from a down-pour of inspiration.
i never asked to be pretected from my own thoughts,
so stop,
fickle whispers of failure.
i'm on the rise.
i close my eyes and plunder my brain for the misplaced directions
to the exit of the ball-point duldrum,
i know they're around here somewhere.
i've got thirty three trash bags of pointless memories,
and not one of them can help me.
so i hoist the sails
and viciously exhale,
sending myself out to sea
where i'll be free to raise the nets dragging on the floor,
and sort through the mooshed-up words
to turn them into something more.

a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been

the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain

don't let the concrete tame you

the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines

barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones

let us fly

let us soar

s'go

i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen

be the water that i drink

fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness

let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west

let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent

She paints walls
with anguish
blended
from murky emotions between them,
coats the ceiling with shades of his past mistake.  
Befuddled,
his clinical genius
finds no path for them to take.

She flaunts neglect
for all to see
so he allows no one to enter.
She erects
invisible mountains
for him to climb
with uncharted trailheads beckoning.  
He trudges daily
through fallen ruins of past quarrels,
wandering unmapped terrain
in search of their secret stream
of lost love.

I was thinking, this morning
As my cat dragged my bacon off the plate and onto the new tablecloth
As my other cat tried to bury the newly smeared grease stain
As still another measured how far he could nudge a glass off the edge of the counter before it would fall and shatter,
And the first moved on to gnawing happily on the fresh flowers we'd tried to conceal from her,
And the second endeavored to pull the Christmas tree down by the bottom string of lights,
And the third clumsily swished a tail through what remained of my repast
I was thinking:
See, this is why we can't have nice things.