Such a delicate specimen should not be as humble
As to refer to her own talents with such nonchalance.
As though they are none more passionate than that which
I had allowed to spiral out of control
And lead my mind to an early grave.

Such beautiful words must be just only reflected
By any mirror which she glances away from guiltily;
Or perhaps by the glass, having been shattered,
And having been spread along the path
From which she simply refuses to stray.

I have heard her stanzas; her lines; her words,
And yet isolated they lose their bite.
The truth she speaks is far more prominent than that of my own,
As though the words have been ripped from he mind and laid raw,
But far more artful and complex.

Her beauty I can not even begin to fathom
Although she speaks of it as though it is simplistic.
She calls herself a realist, but she's anything but real.
Not in my mind, at least - nothing so ideal could exist;
Nothing so worth living for could waste its time on me.

Every fault she has, every word she's spoken out of context;
Every word she has neglected to speak for lack of time;
Every sound she's suppressed for lack of understanding -
It's enchanting to me - much more enticing than it would be
Had she articulated it to perfection and engraved it on her skin.

Nothing I pile on paper could fully describe her -
Not my harsh words; not the dulled mutterings in my veins.
Credit could only be granted successfully by her own hand,
And yet she does not see it - she is blind to her own brilliance.
So perhaps my only purpose is to show it to her and make her understand.

They call her morbid but I call her bright -
The last stand of the sun before oncoming night.
They call my bluff and so I will remain
In the space between caring and going insane.
Amid calculations and long drawn out notes
There’s a couple of words that reveal what she knows;
And it seems I must skip them so I don’t invade
Though she may not believe me since I’ve turned the page.

Well you’re the mistaken heart; the martyr; the sinner
Who died for her cause and the title Beginner -
Now don’t you feel bad just because I know where my place is.
Went straight from, “You’re brilliant,” to, “Oh, you’re so selfish,”
Weren’t there for the beatings and ignored the clauses
That suggested you’re more than a page on my bookshelf
Or the smiles that told you I hate it.

Now there’s tragedy - yes, a break in the story -
Her fear of loss makes her lose.
But she doesn’t care because she’s lost nothing
Besides a spinning string
That bent away from everything
Which tried to tie it still

She lost seams and innocence in passion;
It used to hurt when she bothered to mention
But now I’m immune and just imagining the next chapter.
I can’t even feel the body I’m touching;
Eyes try to catch mine but I’m thinking of nothing.
Seems I’m not good enough again
When I am compared to a pastor.

I tried to stop it but you’re just a memory
That resonates more like a nightmare.
It’s fading fast and losing credit -
Sorry, I don’t care.
You’ll be fine.

Such a deep, grating pain with such little remorse
Perhaps it’s explained by the pain I have forced
Or emptiness inside me where I used to be packed
It’s contrast - I’m burning; I’m freezing; I’m cracked

Deep in the breeze there’s a misguided longing
Like people I’ve lost or the soul I’ve left wandering
In the jail of my mind - a place void of all feeling
And the love I’ve let go which I’ve taken to stealing

A few words stick out - the ones that might matter
If I’d delete the pronouns; the seeking; her laughter
My passion’s a symptom; my knowledge a curse
Infectious like pollen - easier dispersed

And how do you hear it?  Have I wrote it the same?
Does it seem like you’re touring remnants of my brain?
Or does it simply mean nothing like the person who wrote it?
Either way it’s still hard for my beat veins to hold it.

I cut my heart into stanzas and tainted fragments with your name
Written on skin with shaking hands disconnected and insane
But I found it weak and fleeting; washed your ashes down the drain
Developed bruises where I’d scrawled so hard it hurt — but I liked it.

Disillusioned and dysfunctional she murmured, “Have you loved before?”
I was thinking, yes, but gasped out, “no,” so she wouldn’t worry more
What she might have felt settled in me; I shook, unhinged indefinitely
Had you held my heart?  Or did you break it from a distance?

I’ve given up on order.  It’s just subdued the chaos.
I’ve given up on life, but I’ve stayed here all the same.
He asked me if I wished to die — so I said, “Yes, but that’s not why.”
I’d done it so he’d notice; I’d done it so he’d care.

Quite obscure and rough, I think, but I’ll teach you to love it
Sometimes less is more, y’know — sometimes I’m tired of it
Simple words can break you down like simple blades you’ve lost and found
That missed the mark and fell apart to leave a scar above it.

Under harsh scrutiny she took a stand,
And I watched with a twisted sense of pride.
She was not mine.
Never would she be, and yet I watched her
As though I had the right to be proud.

For I'd touched her porcelain skin before-
The slightest of feathers - that which perhaps she wouldn't notice.
She'd touched mine; she'd tasted mine; she owned mine,
And yet she wasn't committed to it.
Because never had she seen; she was always looking passed me.

Right at the one who would caress that skin,
And then shatter it.
And leave her with a million pieces.
Questions that don't quite fit together.
She knew if she asked enough she'd understand.

But she was quite wrong - very naive, in fact,
He had taken her spine from the rubble.
Never would her mind fit together again,
Stable.
But she'd be ****** to try forever.
To place all the pieces in a pile and watch it fall down.

It won't be very long, you see,
All the tears she let fall to the pavement and go with the rain -
She may hide those from us now
But soon the air will be dry.
And they'll fall again for his absence,
And she'll try to escape him.

You can't run too far without your spine,
With your heart only beating for someone who has died
And left you, to become someone better.
To be with someone better.
You can't win and you very well won't want to.