A phone call,
small talk,
feelings and emotions,
a desire to know...

Know the person whom,
you say you love,
you say you care,
you say you want to know....
Before a lifelong commitment.

But can you, know and accept
things which you may not like?
Can you know and accept
a world where once you were not there?
Can you know, accept and still love
me with my past and present,
for a future of us?

Till then, I will lock inside,
feelings which I want to share,
with you whom I love.
Till then I will wait..
Till then I will wait...

A message in a bottle,
was once brought to me.
Adventures galore it narrated,
spread before to see.

Of dolphins to swim with,
Of sea and sand,
In front of thee,
holding thy hand.

Of collecting shells,
along the beach.
Of the waves' murmur...
wonderful speech.

Of fulfilling dreams
before an age,
Of flowers to line,
the margins of every page.

Of exotic things,
to breathe and eat.
Of highest places,
a lookout seat.

But nothing remains,
in remembrance.
As one mistake,
takes precedence.

The bottle is broken,
cannot hold a message.
Sinks below the surface,
Thus the final presage.

A needle through my vein,
and it runs, into a bag.
To be donated to someone,
someone who needs it
more than I do.
I happily give, but in return
receive two biscuits and
a bottle of water.
My body will regenerate it.
My soul will never feel it.
My life will never need it.
A bag of myself,
for someone else is given.
Appreciated it is,
as an unknown face,
that smiles on receiving.
A piece of myself is gone,
in the process of giving.

Restless in a room,
behind the window bars,
Rows of ordered cells,
In which I am one.
With which I am one,
to be in state,
motionless.
A dull throb in mind,
a desire to go out,
a number holds me back.
Cannot talk, cannot hear,
Unwell, sleeping.
Wake up and see,
Love for thee.
To tear me away from this
cage of mine. Out in the open,
into your arms.

Wrenched and twisted,
a sigh escapes
my heart, for you
and I, to be together.
Spun in a bin,
filled with a liquid,
to cleanse, to bind,
out to dry, on a hanger.
Hangs there thus,
to dry, to wrinkle, to fade.
Into the last ray,
of dimming light,
without the vitality,
of a last fight.

Flickering light, images flow by
of cats and vamps and wolves on the sly
the undead tango with the dead
oh.. the books I have not read.

When something happens, something small
turns the whole place withall
popcorn doesn't pop no more
it's all a matter of blood and gore.

For when in the jungle, the quiet jungle
the lion roars tonight
the baser beasts fail to mingle
and move out of MY sight!

Of flashy pictures and subtle texts found
A guy’s feet when I look around,
Of heavy lids of trashcans crude
Images of Paoli in the ****,
Of blood being ****** through the veins
And bedsheets filled with coffee stains.
Of walls and posts and weeks gone by,
Without a single scream or cry,
Of not a bath or a shower
Helpless without any such power,
Of Faustus and Valdes to spare
Othello seemed to have no care,

Tomorrow never dies for me…
For it's tomorrow I will never see.