To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...

I live in a place where the sky never gets very dark at night.
The city lights illuminate,
And they contrast with the deep black,
Creating the faint purple hue I always see before I sleep.
And I think to myself,
You and me, we made the color purple.
I, the mysterious, but misunderstood night.
And you, lighting me up with your joy, passion, and wit.
A bulb so full it could protect the dark from itself for eternity.
You embraced the dark,
And turned it into something far more than the shades of charcoal, ash, and ink.
But now the city light is gone,
And the sky is dim enough to see the stars that are my memories of you.
Constellations bursting from the frame of night,
Aligning to form the *** we made our favorite mac n cheese in,
And the obnoxious belt you bought me for my birthday that I still wear.
They stretch across the canvas of sheet-black,
And I think to myself,
Can the others see them too?
The stars for what they really are?
Because when the sky becomes black again,
All the stars are visible,
And I recall why I first cherished them.

i am lost,
in the most dense of forests,
deepest of oceans,
and the most opaque of fogs.
search for me,
and you will become lost yourself.
disappearing through leaves,
drowning beneath the current,
evaporating into the air.
yet,
it will be as if i never went,
i was never found.

all was silent as they sat,
taking in the ocean as it flowed like quill with ink.
each stroke so masterful, yet so dark,
so deep.
the open water stretched for miles to come,
"but, what do we do now?" she says
"we enjoy it.
until it's done."
and the bomb fire rained over head,
war taking souls with each stroke of death, all so dark,
so deep.

It's too often in this life when we pretend
that every deep-end is a wading pool
and every fool with a dream
is a philosopher in disguise;
because we weave lies into silk and grieve
every time a tree falls with no-one around to hear
but we still appear to fear our past paths
more than our futures.

We live in a world built with false pretenses
and barbed wire fences,
but we still make wire cutters for every time
he mutters of freedom reached our ear.
We make the road ahead clear
with a You Shall Not Pass mentality,
swapping between dreams and reality so fluidly
it seems that we will never truly wake again.
If I could make amends for everything I've done,
I'd take a pass,
because sometimes you'll only be sorry
if in the process you look like an ***.
But everyday, in the looking glass,
I see a man just a little older than the day before
with the worst day behind him
and a new one in store
and a future no bright, no-one could even try to ignore.

My poetry is hardly crowd control,
but I'd like to think that winter night's stroll
through my mind wouldn't be hard but it would.
Because even the urge to do right and do good
gets lost in translation
and each radio station is broadcasting spells
and each songs just a hermit crab in an already used shell.
Am I expected to enjoy that?
I'm not better, but anyone better would crush them flat.

I digress, I suppose what I'm trying to say
is that this sorry mess of a love story
has gotten to a gory conclusion
and I can still make magnetic fusion with the ashes left.
It's hard to carry on when each footstep leaves behind
a memory people can use to find you,
but my heart can still beat black and blue
and I know that I'll have a place
no matter where my road takes me to.

It's all nameless splendours
and 'return to sender's.
Without the clarity to make sense
and the rarity to be heard,
we are blurred together
like colors on the canvas.
Where I settle in and make my home,
it's insanity and ****** sea foam.
        Straight lines where everything careens
               into smokescreens and blackened eyes.
                       Cruelty in disguise.
                              Lonely demise.
                                Unheard cries
                                   Dark skies.
                                       Lies...
                                          It is here... I make my home.