My mind felt lately like a building destroyed by a natural disaster, where all I could do is walk around the rubble and wonder what I could possibly do next.

You think you want to know everything there is to know about everything there is to know. But you don't. Not really. I had pried the lid off the dark places of another person before, I had seen inside. Down deep. You don't want to look at what's rotting there.

Us living as we do upside down. 
And the new word to have is revolution. 
People don't even want to hear the preacher 
spill or spiel because God's whole card has been thoroughly piqued. 
And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey. 
The youngsters who were programmed to continue 
******* up woke up one night digging 
Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys. 
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes.
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our open ended ******. 
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. 
Two long centuries buried in the musty vault, 
hosed down daily with a gagging perfume. 
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country 
whose legs were then spread around the world 
and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. 
Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names 
that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling 
in the mother country's crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
and a children and some food to feed them every night.
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you.
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,—
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.

You make my knees
sway like the limbs of
a tree in a harsh wind
when you walk by;
your words make me blush
like a sweet summer rose—
you make my heart sing
songs of adulation that
nest in the heart like birdsong;
I could spend
an eternity in your arms,
and not be bored with the outcome.
In a world where
nothing lasts — let’s make
ourselves a promise:
let’s last.

I love waking up in the morning, smelling like you
My sheets smell like you
Even my thoughts smell like you.

For now, I’ll stay here
Tangled up in me
Smelling like you.

In the spring, we fall in love; you and me. Together, we stay up all night. We dream of the future, and dissect the past. We wonder how we got here. We decide that we don't care; you and me. Together, that's how it should be. We spend hours lying in your bed, learning the curves and lines of each other's body. We go on dates that we don't call dates, because to put a label on what we are would only stifle things. We're not really sure what this is anyways, but we like it; you and me. Together, we think we are unstoppable. You are not normal, but that's okay, because neither am I. Our instabilities and insecurities balance each other. We are like yin and yang; you and me. Together, we are whole.

In the summer, you and I grow weary. Apart, we drift away. We slash at each other with words and fists. We fight and make up, and fight and don't make up. You and I are breaking. Apart, we start to shatter. The heat drives you mad, and you take it out on me. I get restless in the warmth, and begin to fly away. You and I are still together, but the cracks are beginning to show. Further and further apart we go. We stretch until one of us simply has to snap. You break first, diving head deep into your insanities, and breaking me in the process. You and I have gotten completely out of hand. Apart, perhaps we can heal?

In the fall, I attempt to heal myself. I do not hear from you, I do not wish to. I spend time putting myself back together again. I am a puzzle, and even I, am unsure of what the final picture will be. I try to pick myself up from the mess that you have made of me. I still have heard nothing from you, and I am still grateful for that fact. You have wounded me deeply, perhaps deeper than anyone knew. You have made your scars on both my heart and soul. I spend time doing things for myself, so that I can remember who I am. There is still silence from you; I do not miss you. I have begun to learn to live again. I even begin to flirt with the idea of love again. I believe that I have finally found myself again. I hear from you at last, a simple message; I am glad, because I have missed you as a friend.

In the winter, we come together again. We set boundaries, and know that we can still be friends. We start to talk again, little things, at first. But soon, we are telling all our secrets again. We are closer than normal friends, but then again, when have we ever been normal? We have no demands of each other this time around. The only thing we ask is a pair of ears to speak to. And together, we oblige. We spend time in public places, never alone, where we can't get into trouble. It is nice for us to share with each other again. We are more than we could have ever dreamed of being. But we still are not lovers, nor are we in love; this is a good thing. As winter begins to thaw, we grow closer and closer. And finally on the cusp of spring, we kiss, and the cycle begins anew.