One morning, while sleeping right next to the phone,
I grabbed the receiver and heard quite a tone;
A beautiful voice was just ringing with glee.
I think it was happy to talk, and with me.

And she said, "I remember the way that you'd look
While you honestly laughed at the way that I took
All your ventricles, atriums-- all of your heart--
And I'd kiss it and innocence with us would part
To the fields where our wrestling wasn't a curse,
And the grass left no stain on our clothes or our mirth."

"I remember the way that your heart would kiss back
As if shyness and manhood and wisdom it lacked.
But your heart in your lips also spoke, not just kissed,
The words gentle yet firm, always smooth, never hissed;
You would speak of the white picket fence we would have
With your white picket teeth glowing bright while you laugh."

"To you the word marriage meant nothing but me
And the God whom you loved, in a song would agree.
With your heart in your lips and my heart in my throat
I would say, "Though your tongues' of an angel I quote
From my verse of the day through which God has revealed
That I shouldn't love you and here's how it was sealed;
"It is good for a man not to marry." so I
Think I'll take that to heart and I'll bid you good bye."
Here you cried and you said through a breathless exhaust,
"Does this mean that the love I have given is lost?""

O, if I could have seen her fair face through the line
And if one hazel Iris that used to be mine
Was just weeping a lonesome and singular tear
I'd have fallen apart, but instead with a sneer
She then gave me the wonderful theme of the call;
That is, "Laugh at your folly in love!" Then she hung up.

You spend
most of your nights
missing her.

You steady your walk-
forcing yourself
towards a double bed
you no longer find comfort in.

The floor wraps it's
fibers around your feet
and you cling to the carpet.

It smells new like-
this isn't a house you've
spent most of your life
buried in.

Move away.

Remind yourself
what freedom feels like.
Be up early to admire
the dew again.

Let it seep
through your bones.

Soak inside of it
like moisture is your head's
only ticket to closure.

You think of her again.

Break the blades of grass
between your fingers
and convince yourself
you and precipitation
have something in common-

these tears they contribute
to your growth.  

Wake up.

Pay attention to
the fact you lived.
Don't be mad she didn't

Those who were marginalized by the braids and serpentine lights, devotions were made in Saint John allowing electromagnetic discharges from the imperceptible space-time of Vernarth's parapsychological quantum; alluding to clarities that achieved everything by having Patmia in the material and incorporeal from the start of the stained glass windows and archetypes by Transfer Quantum that burned the chins of hominids who believed to be immortal as if they were looking in this position for the direction between the eyebrows and the chin , for the Euclidean incidence crossing all the pools that are between quantum means of transfer of ions and cations. The oscillations of the sparkling field of consciousness of the containers were of ethical variables that became perpendicular to the space of draft or levitation of the designations that originated with accelerated electric charges on Patmos, developing albiceleste skylights over the harmonic equations as they elongated in proportions of quanta that They argued greater than those that circulated elliptically from Grikos to Skalá, and then to Profitis with assiduous progenitors of long-wave quanta. The magnificence of the halo became rectilinear up to the high altar that was atomized from the unskillful penumbra to reabsorb the inclinations of physical life in the Macedonians and the Achaemenides when they were trapped by the loss on the propagation of the Lux, which was imposed in hemicycles where they were they reclined to relax in the lux of rest of the path of the reasoning that made pederasty in the links with the minuscule obtuse lights, reeling from the clothing and its finite speed of what measures the ability to be undetermined in the margins of error of the antagonists when originating flow rates, greater in his dermis to regenerate towards any other that could be clothing of greater speed.

Thus was the scenario of dimensional magnitude between the powers that did not have contact, but their dimensionless energies on a surface that reached absorbent to the one that rectifies the concretive of the error that partially abused them. Their legacies would pass to a supplementary electromagnetic plane, separating their masses and retaking orientation from where they returned, where if the ideal of the final rational was refracted where everything would be vivid darkness. The obstacles classified them in the closure of the average height and the average surface, to then redirect to the maximum height and maximum surface propagating in irregularities of the Ego "Believing that they were never overcome in the diffuse perception of the metal mirror." The incident rays of the Lux would go to meet the multi-incident plane of the Mashiach, the wave angles were refracted throughout the sinuous law as radiosity passed over the greater mass that was normalized from the tangent that was projected 180 meters above the eyebrow. and Vernarth's chin, along with the recharged electromagnetic strengths of Alexander the Great's reactivation bezels, which at times seemed to levitate over the Lux's high frequencies and vary independently with its crowded functionalities, among scattered restraints that it presented to both weightless behind. from the decayed marble sawdust, separating from its phosphorescence that bounced between the rigging of solid surfaces and semi-solid ones, when realizing that the sea and the silica were confessed to the Pronoia of Delphi. Inducing Vernarth for the first time into a Pronoia versology on the Athena of Delphi, prompting them to separate from the world and it's holistic to divide into three portions of the dissociation of consciousness from the end of the Lux of Parapsychology, which had hosted them for centuries and centuries. . The Pronoia conspiracy systematized the reaction that would reunite them after this oracular parapsychology, making the adversaries believe that they were discrepancies of clinical parapsychology, equating warlike causes in the containment of Delphic neuroscience. From this quantification, the predominance of Vernarth's Lux de Pronoia was announced, linking peculiar segmentation of submit logical historicity in this work as a starting thesis, which speculates the same for those who have to make an analysis of historical dogmatic imperialism as a justification for mythological normality. The Lux thesis aimed to show that the dimensions of the mythology and the submitology, when exposed in physical quanta, made a tendency of irresolution in the abode of spiritual Tractatus reasoning and not in the instinctual one, which watches over recitals where history and its collective memory indicate outbursts of moderation. The role of the submithology  is to pretend that this normality is made close to the instruction after yours temporary for causes of your deep patrimonial, that makes them captives from the social complexity, with the disambiguation of certain criteria by maximizing the hidden truth of the ascending opposition forces that they have generated great conflagrations, intuition being the unreflective pseudo-reality with historical formalities that stumble into the terrified directionality of the myth that was to be reality. The tiny spaces of the verve left by the silent mechanics of the Persians became defensive when they saw their emissaries incoherently in the verticality of Allah when they saw that the confusing world with anxiety exaggerated predictions and failures invulnerability of a lineage that always had. been condemned to the desert.

Everything conspired with a Pronoia of siege, before the exegesis that sought purification and that was how they headed and misdirected their mistakes in the active train of the recess of their abstracted retreat, in a universe that also abandoned them after the subsequent train of Aurion waking them in their illusions with swords, and stealthy spears in dreams that specified safe rest. The ferocities of the proto-souls of assault carried away the translucent bodies of the Persians, and the Hellenes in acts of honor made such congenital paths of the understandable vocabulary that he did not speak. The prism was located in the cautious measure of its contractile dispersion with white separations of mantles, earth, and water scalded by dynamics that formed colorful activations with their withdrawal phenomena in the immaculate albino Lux that dissolved all of the facet optics that it made. Lux's great brain in the instant that the Thuellai airs transfigured the nuances of the Atros monastery, with objects that refused to be absorbed by the black hue, generating mechanical waves of equivalence in their identical interference that caused two opposing forces to distill the coherent differential that had to be overexposed in the category of historical Submitology. The two inverted waves separated, the Hellenes moaned and hiccupped for having to become identical when separating from their immaterial bodies, doing wonders that would house additional souls that would complement a transitory becoming towards the garden of the angels that provided them with identical beams of light, interfering in what animated the lights of pageantry, with the antithesis of interference where they resided in constancy knowing that they felt possessed of benefits of the eternal length of existence, but with pressures of mutable in some involuntary constancy and amplitude of having parallel directions with Saint John the Apostle and the Siblis. The phenomenon of polarization of both empires was denatured in a transverse way in all the electric fields after this feat, inciting unique fields of the pure and selective ascending ecosystem, which generated polaroid substances at the angle of ninety degrees above the browbones and chin of Vernarth, to approach the Pronoia of concatenation with Alexander the Great refracting unscathed hyper-vital and transcendent faces of infinity. Like any other phenomenon, the Lux crossed both bodies like two Xiphos swords that processed the electromagnetic valve, by iridium that converted with all the coarse Lux that crossed the succumbed immateriality and stopped the shaft and the nail that hang in the typology of electromagnetic radiation from the Hellenic world between them, making an ominous redemptive fire that was regimented to leave them both in the middle of a farm where there were farmyard animals, stockpiled pastures and a house that absorbed them as parents who would love them as beings of Lux. Thus, this primary parapsychological quantum network penetrated the level of the archangels that made them be together in planes of manumission, and that does not admit bi-quantum personality or bi-parapsychology that can cancel out the portent of the helmets and the lineage that does not dazzle if they are not made of iron.

The life of the other world began to be encompassed in all the Subtraigus beings that would correspond to the astral plane that was confirmed after the Kalidona Romantics deduced the Unicorn Uilef or Uilef Monókeros after Pronoia. Kalidona being an uninhabited island and the Uilef sleeps in between copulating with Spinalonga and Kolokythas along with other smaller islets, plus two hundred that will make up six islands of the twenty-six tetragram of Alef. Here Drestnia went with her consort of Etréstles from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi to find fateful encounters of Pantheism based on the majestic copulation of beauty, among twenty-six numbers that prevailed in virtuosos who took refuge in Kalydon or Kalidona, preparing for their rampage with grafted grotesque derived bodies of the Falangist Hellenes who were arranged of their musculature, so that they directed the finesse of the civility of Hesiod, Terpando, Archiloco, Baquílides, tragic like Etréstles, Aeschylus Sophocles, Euripides and comedian like Aristophanes.

There is nothing more I wish
Than to see the loved ones
As they pass away.
Because every time they died,
I was never around
And they died alone.
At home, or at a hospital.
During my school hours
Or in the deepest night.
And I don't want to be elsewhere.
I want to be there.
I NEED to see them.
To properly say
Goodbye.

And thank you.

the putrid smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey breath feels like home.
           His arms felt like home, too.
      I knew him as the boy who’d party all night and make plans with me the next day only to sleep the whole time.
              I knew him as ****** noses from ******* and the young emphysemic cough that would **** a small part of me every time I heard it.
     I knew him as that big, stupid ******* smile.
I knew him as the boy who’d ride his bike to my house but would always be too worn out to ride his bike with me.
          I knew him as far too charming for his own good.
I knew him as perfectly imperfect.
       I know him as cold and unempathetic.
I know him as the boy who refused to get on the phone with me for closure.
     I know him as unstable.
I know him as manipulative.
      I know myself as someone who will never be more important than *******.
I know myself as someone who will never be more important than cigarettes.
     I know myself as just another doll who was tossed to the side by a child who got bored.
     The fetor of a coffin nail and the acidic aroma of Highlands Red still reminds me of him—
                 but only the version of him that I knew.

Angel eyes
Watching me closely
Every move, that I make
Angel eyes
Watching my breath tonight
Oh my angel, watch me sleep

Cause your my angel
My ever loving angel
That will never change
Be my breath tonight

Angel wings
Embracing me
Closure to my aching heart
Angel wings
Shielding me
From my bad past, behind

Cause your my angel
My ever loving angel
That will never change
Be my breath tonight

And every time I fall
You will catch me
And every time I break
You'll put me back together
Every time I cry
You will whipe a way my tears
Oh angel, my angel

Cause your my angel
My ever loving angel
That will never change
Be my breath for life

Let me tell a story about how to be crazy.

So its 3 AM.
You're dreaming in the past, but wide awake. Stomach unsettled, tears rolling down face. Its been forever. Months. Coming on a year. Maybe more. You've been here before. All alone. Various locations and times in your life, but all the same result. You cared about someone more than you thought you could care for anything, and they deserted you, turned their back on you, or decided to hate you. Parents, brother, sister, maybe best friends, or this time the love of your life. That person you found yourself infinitely happy with, who you never thought would leave your side. You question now for the ten thousandth time, why? All over again, the flashbacks cycle through your head. Good memories, bad ones. Ranging from wonderful euphoria to feelings after grave mistakes. A mental rollercoaster ride you strapped yourself into for no reason at all. Things they said, things you said. You find that your head is a broken record which never falters in recollection or account. All these memories, a timeless and photographic archive kept for no other reason than to torment you for the rest of your life. You relive a once familiar face spewing terrible factoid after factoid after factoid, which depending on perspective, or if you must be God or not, are either completely baseless opinions, or maybe totally true. You hear that loved one's voice talk terribly about you again, that same one who once whispered in your ear with such a tenderness of care and love. You go ahead and remind yourself that they now almost act like they never loved you or as if they were only the victim of your completely heinous crimes. As if it were ever news to you. You remember that just before that time, you'd already confessed before the conviction. They wouldn't let you take the blame at the time, but then threw you completely under the bus as if you all of the sudden, needed to be punished for being so absolutely terrible. You had already suffered enough. You were going nuts, you put yourself through so much pain and got so low over things barely of your doing because you wanted things to be alright. You remember confessing to them, owning up to every mistake you could think of, and even things you couldn't control...apologizing for things people said you did, but didn't even do. Promising and pleading to make things right. Promising yourself to never leave their side. That you'd always have their back. But now, you go back to remember that the things you promised were seen as nothing. If they meant something to that person once, they mean nothing now. You remember how their parents talked to you like you were worse than trash, forced a breakup. When you had only tried to piece it all together and came back to your love, they were tired of your "excuses". They even wound up thanking their parents for driving you to the edge of suicide and left you to die when they were the only thing you had left. Did I mention that only weeks after telling you they'd wait for you, after their parents forcefully broke you up, would always think the world of you, would always love you, and always want you, they decided they don't even like your gender? Now, time goes by. Those things are gone. You recreate them in your head over and over because they never did turn out alright. You try to find out what you could have done to change the result. You never got your closure and you became nothing but bad memories and the topic of gossip. The last time you tried to talk to the person about it, they told you they were tired of having to explain themselves to you, but they didnt explain anything at all except reminding you that you treated them like ****, that they're never coming back, and that they're gloriously happy with someone else. They are tired of you shifting blame on them, and telling them they almost killed you with the things the way they dumped you. After all, you almost committed suicide a dozen times. They reiterate to you for good measure, that they don't like your gender. It makes you feel disturbed as you flashback to things you did alone together. You question what was real. They tell you they could never have had *** with you, and act like it is a big deal to you. No matter what you say you can't get them to budge. Its odd to you because you already had a form of *** with them - multiple times, and they appeared to like it. Going down on her was a bit of a one way deal, but what made you happy was being able to pleasure her, and you were satisfied with that. There was never any real craving for more. Besides...you loved them, not their ****** anatomy. You thought it was mutual. You thought you were clear. You thought they were honest. Somehow now though, in their mind, they finally stomped you down. As if you were some terribly controlling brainwashing freak... they finally got away from your control and were proud to do so. The control they and their family and friends all made up for you in their heads. Just like how their mother told you that "you never did anything except **** with her head". You know you genuinely loved that girl. You know your promises were real when everyone told her you were full of ****. You remember in the last of the better days, pleading for that person to just be honest and be themselves amid so much ******* and chaos. Meanwhile people including the love of your life are completely moving on because they couldn't care less than to stop for your ****. Your life is whizzing by you. That person that hurt you, or lets say, you hurt, may never speak a word to you again, yet you continue to dwell on things you couldn't change. There are millions of fish in the sea, and you're determined to starve yourself dead before you let that one get away. Little do you know it was caught by someone else months ago and you'll never get it back. You'll just keep trying until you die because then you can pretend it isn't suicide.

once there was a man.
he wandered twisting caverns
without a thought,
swaying as he walked.

he came upon a button
on the rotting ground
and stooped low to pick it up,
holding it between careless fingers.

then there was a man with a button.
his ambling gait aimless
among crumbling walls of dirt,
and ceilings of the same.

he came upon a needle,
rusted but neatly threaded,
squatting to look and struggling
to grab it between nonexistent nails.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle,
turning endless corners
with a hand brushing along every wall.

he came upon a soft, dark shirt
and bent to pick it up,
noticing that, upon inspection,
it was missing a button.

then there was a man with a button and
a neatly threaded needle, wearing a dark shirt.
his eyes scanned the rotting ground,
holding the needle and button in a tense hand.

he came upon a pair of linen pants,
midnight black and tailored well.
he stepped into them, tucked in his shirt,
and continued on his meandering way.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants
stumbling through dank tunnels.

he came upon a pair of shined onyx shoes
and put them on without pomp,
leaning against the crumbling walls
to lift each foot into a shoe.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants,
dragging shined shoes through never-ending passages.

he came upon a suit jacket,
noticing that the pockets bulged with a pair of gloves
as he knelt to don it. he slipped the
gloves onto shaking hands.

once there was a man dressed for a funeral,
a man who was under the impression that
he had no occasion to attend in such attire,
a man who continued to wander infinite caverns.

he came upon a chamber
with sobered steps and saw a fitting sight.
A casket lay in the center of the room,
surrounded by wilted roses on the rotting floor.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who looked to his left and beheld
a veiled woman in spectacular mourning dress,
whose cold hands reached to hold his own.

her delicate fingers came upon the button
and neatly threaded needle. she surveyed
his garb and found the spot where his shirt
was missing a closure.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who, legs shaking, allowed a veiled woman
to expertly sew the button back onto his shirt.
a voice came from behind the veil:

"pay your respects."

his legs seemed to move without his say
to the center of the room.
he watched as his arms, no longer his own,
lifted the ebony lid to reveal

a beautiful cream silk lining,
bright against the Stygian casket,
gently cradling a man dressed for a funeral
with a mismatched button sewn to his shirt.

The paint warped upon sight, like tears
Over time falling silently to the decayed
Cycle below. I felt its bleak wine pealing's
Upon my fingers And tasted its age.

The aroma of so many  memories of what
Was before of all that touched upon its
Brass holdings and It screamed in defiance
Shut so many times, now unending closure.

It wanted to be open to the world not
Subjugated in locked form. Its motions
Were static locked in an unending cycle
Of nothing. It was tearing flakes upon the floor.

It wanted to creak upon the breeze to feel
The wind to scratch at its rings of now slain
Of forgotten time. its creaks are its needing
To be open to the world once again.

<i>If your wife is murdered and the killer is never caught
If your son is killed by a drunk driver who swerved his direction
We always hear the word “closure” used in many situations
It’s like putting a band-aid on a wound needing stitches
It can’t bring a deceased spirit back to life
It can’t find the man who murdered your wife
It may bring some temporary relief from your grief
But the word closure is never quite complete
Search parties scour the ocean
For that missing plane near Laos
Radar say’s it went down over there
But no-one can really say where
It’s at the bottom of the sea
To deep for the eyes to see
In reality it’s a watery tomb
It may never be found and all that we hear
Is that word closure mentioned …oh dear
The relatives are seen crying in disbelief
Like it’s a bad dream and there’s no relief
That closure word is so meaningless it’s almost comical
I for one refuse to use it or mention it to family
When I hear it at a funeral I just try to ignore it
It’s easy for me to make that statement
When I am the one doing the talking
While another poor soul receives the bad news
That word closure is giving me the “blues”

Inside these ******* covers, we all hide a child that refuses to grow up.
A child that still craves love and attention but is chained and dumped.
We all are aware of that little life who is scared and tortured and left alone
But none of us is brave enough to stand up for that child and make him feel home
And give him love that he deserves and be his friend to help him overcome
all the fears that feed on him
Fear of rejection, fear of this world
Fear of closure, fear of growing up
Fear of trusting someone
Fear of being loved.

Inside these ******* covers, we all hide a child that refuses to grow up.
That child will either turn into a monster or into a no one.

What is literature to a convict?
with his name erased from his shirt, his memory
sitting in a warm chair
his only poetry is the girls he sees from across the glass
with jargon hanging from their sweaters
hem untied, tongue tied
“I want to live in a hotel” he tells his social worker
“all the way on the last floor at the very end of the hallway
I want the privacy in every suburban bedroom to be a joke
and I’ll laugh so ******* loud”
this prisoner has never killed a man
but his gums always bleed, like boiled beets
what is lost to a convict?
nothing, if you’ve searched long enough for it
“I don’t read, I have the best works inside my head
not memorized by pleasure, but by force
like a bullet to my knee, like a birthmark
not small enough to hide.”
“baby, I used to be a free man sometime”
and he was. He was free but he was also alone
a felon in his own right, grew a mustache
when he was only 15 and lonely
Walking alone one night he stumbled upon neon signs
upon god’s fruit, not everything is dressed in flowers
but a woman with caramel legs doesn’t need such luxuries
under dim lights, under smooth songs
this man found heaven to be boring
but the malaise in the gates of paradise
made candy melt down tight skin
“so this is fair. to be accompanied by hell
I could almost buy you a drink” he tells her
he tells her
he tells her
he tells her again
she smiles
this is not indulging
this is business
she used to write those words
on cigarette wrappers
until she could say it in her sleep
no love for poor men
and why does he wear a suit with a stain on it?
What a fool, she thinks
but this suit
this calamity of an accessory
was worn by that man’s
best friend
before, before the world turned cruel
before he knew what the difference
was between justice and closure
“sit down, tell me your bravery
spill it as easy as your skirt,
***** it as quick as the
dirt that’s been thrown on your face
you’re more than just
lemonade on a summer night”
but she swings her hair
and she asks for more
than a mortal man can offer
she wants the world
she wants the money he doesn’t have
and she calls him a thief
and she calls him a liar
and he’s left in a room
some bodies are nothing more than consolations
“I wanted more than a taste of life”
so he searches for her
but he gets lost in yellow taxi cabs
can’t decide whether he
should be in a hospital
or a cemetery
but he goes to a cathedral and
speaks with a priest
he beckons, he screams
he rips his hair off his head
in clumps they fall into his faded jeans
he clamors about the ****** he’s never committed
about how he just wants to be a famous writer
or a composer everyone cries to
he wants god to give him a bruise
he grabs the priests’ collar and kisses him violently
as the priest gasps for air, clutching nothing
all he wanted was a little peace, a little passion
why can’t you understand? None of this is carnal
none of this was made for the intention to be ****
he was sick of feeling ***** without ever being unclean in
the first place
and as he sat on the curb of that church, that solitary step
after being hurled by meaty altar boys
he wanders once more  
his crooked feet knocking posters and people
with closed eyes
until he reads the paper, until the obituary has her name
but it’s not her name he recognized
But her picture, the brutality of the night being exposed in daylight
he sees it everywhere, in the subway’s screens,
in the dry mouths of old men
there’s his ******, the one he’d been looking for all along
not committed by him
but a ****** nonetheless
set a flame for unforgiving service, for
inexplicable excess of satisfaction
set on fire like Salem witches
he wants to hold her hand one more time
it’s not the absence, but the obsolete
revenge, a platter served medium rare
what is vengeance to a convict?
an eye for an eye, a soul for a soul
he can smell the **** in everyone he crosses
he taps his foot in the downstairs
of the neon signs where he smells
nothing but sugar
and as they whisper in the dark
of the man responsible,
of the sentenced ready for his execution
he can almost taste him, running in shadows
and riding in comfort
Until he finds him at the bottom of a hotel
with his tie sloppily tied around his neck
and his eyes bearing the wicked semblance of a vulture
he goes upstairs
all the way to the top floor at the end of the corridor
and as he walks he can feel his steps amounting to something
this is what he was born to do, since birth these
were the footsteps he was told to follow
the death he was meant to document
savagely prepared for him to feast
he taps his shoulder after this ******, this sadist
has opened the door, ajar
clean and astute, clean cut
our inmate throws him into the
blow of hardwood floors, lamps flying
make his eyes go wild
his spit falling into the carnivore’s mouth,
he asks what is solitude to a slaughter
he trembles, he’s alive in this moment
wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit
digs his fingernails into the whites of
this ****** body and he cackles,
he’s a raven, ravenous
he’s a ghost ******* nothing but hot metal
grinding his teeth, blood flows out of sockets
the shrieking echoes, pain splinters the walls
but nothing is heard because no one is there
this is love, this is the romance he
always wanted
gouging the egg yolk out of another man’s eyes
our hero cries a primal cry
and repeats her name over and over again
like a prayer told too late at a sermon
and as he drown this poor man, who is
no vulture anymore, but a wet parakeet
he recites the words he had written into a paper napkin as a child
and if the first apocalypse ends the world in flames
the last Armageddon will end in a deluge
he watches the criminal’s head swells
drunken with happy fervor, he celebrates
by resisting arrest
what is literature to a convict?
his life told in verse
the catharsis this sad existence could never offer him
until it did
and he smiles
a scam to end all scams

To think of it was immortal
To dream of it was sin
And to want to live it was monstrous.
There was a fire when she was only three,and by then
Her mother was a crack *****, her father no where to be found. She moved from foster homes to foster homes and abuse was her only friend. She turned eighteen and the candle of love which she held ,burned out in the night.
She became what she was supposed to have been years ago:
Torn, worn , a miserable monster. Now she wanders down, a very lonely road, looking for another lover so she can have money for her home. A car stopped at her footsteps
And a faint smile curved on the man's lips
'Heya suga, how much is it for a sweet time?'
'Fifty is enough for the night'.
She got in and he turned of to be a cop.
She spent her last days in prison,no more in parking lots.
So as the ME stands over her, the assistance says,
'I hope she had closure' and covered her now while body.

contumacious imagery,

amorous intensity,

prostitution of the heart,

beating off the chart.

a brush of fingertips,

aching for the whisper of lips,

quicksand stare,

vulnerable and bare.

delicate pusillanimity,

accenting my pulmonary timidity

,hemorrhage of thought,

words of devotion wrought.

closure to desperation,

surrendering upon inclination,

innocence tainted by pain,

tears cleverly disguised as rain.

intoxicating appetite for sensation,

hesitation forcing isolation,

my attatchment never satiated,

my soul emaciated.

jilted girl am i,

you are the apple of my eye,

with you i am besot,

,my adoration not forgot.

Living a hypochondriacs dream,
Because my pain is one that is real.

Everyone says I'm fine,
But I know my own body because my body is mine,
Life developing as a double exposure,
In two places at once and contained in a tight enclosure,
Here I am with no sense of closure,

I will dream of running away,
Throwing my possessions away,
Put my worry to rest,
Before I am the one put to rest.

Running endlessly through a buffet of what life has to offer
Yelling, screaming, kicking, pleading because they didn't get what they wanted
Anytime's fine, unless the time's right now
Never can get what you want boy, you know that's not allowed.

Making crafts out of what no one would take a chance on
Anything'll do right now under the right circumstance son
Teetering towards a heavily weighted decision.
This is what causes the opposing forces into collision.
He knew what many felt should happen, but he also knew what was in his heart.
Entering this mode of thinking he felt, "then why hadn't they all thought this way right from the start?"
"Winning" could bring about closure, but it could also bring proper exposure.

Jumping for joy because people were on the same page.
Every single person, an actor on life's stage.
Nevermind what had made them different before,
Kings and queens they now all are, with only the whole world to expore (and beyond)
Insight made everything feel right and all the people now did bond.
Nights and days, rang out cheers and praise to you and the stars above
Seeing to be true what was always saught, the utopia of love.

I take full responsibility
For what I've done
The stolen coins
The nicked photographs
Shiny black and white
Gray
From a time I was not meant to remember
Blessed with innocence I was
A precious gift I was
That soon rotted for you to grow tired of
A monster you could not control
You took as much as you could take, I know
As did I

I wonder if you realize what you took?
What you stole?
Would the scales be balanced?
No, you have no idea
Why should I walk this earth judged guilty
By a judge more guilty than I?
More...more...more...

No, you were not alone
But at least he tried to tie up the loose ends
You left unraveled as you made your choice
I hated him, even told my pillow as much
As I beat it and hoped it muffled my voice
Pillow my only friend, it dried my tears
Soaked them up
Yes, I hated him, hated his anger
His disgust in me
His unwillingness to slap the **** out of me when I dared him to
I took it as cowardice
I was wrong
I was wrong about a lot of things
None of his faults,
I thought there were many,
Were above forgiving
Now that he's gone I can only remember the good things
The man he truly was, beneath the flaws
Revealed slowly by time
Tested and proven by death
The time you didn't want from me
Tested and proven in death

So why am I still troubled by that day?
How can I see you off after all we've been through?
I remember my grandmother's funeral
I was only a child, it was before you gave up
I sat in a pew of the Freewill Baptist Church she had lived in
My cousin sobbing by my side
I reached over and took her hand, she cried harder
Tears flowed in that old building as the minister spoke the eulogy
No mere recital, she was loved
Then the time came for the people to walk by the casket
One last look before consigning her to memory
The friends strolled by, then it was time for the family
One by one her daughters broke down
And fell to their knees beside the coffin
Wailing and moaning, begging God not to take her
Not even seeming to realize that she was dead
They had to be dragged away, and even that with a fight
I had never seen grief so palpable and frantic
I hope I won't again

I fear I will
When I sit in that front row
I fear the years will take their toll
The absence will make the heart remember
What it wants to remember
Regardless of the truth
When I see your closed eyes staring at the ceiling
Your still body dressed in your going-away clothes
Still as the stand
Which holds the box you'll be buried in

I have resolved to stay home on that gloomy day
To learn from mistakes we both made
Far away, to court my denial for all it's worth
Let someone else mourn
And if this makes me a hateful man, beneath contempt
I will offer no apologies
Blood is thicker than water
But ours has been diluted
I wish I didn't blame you
I don't hate you, though
You did what you had to do

I will, too
I'm a liar
I'll be there
To let you lift the weight off of my shoulders
To see you off into the still, dark night
Never again will we have to worry
About running into each other at garage sales
Or how hard it is to travel seven miles
Or the reasons why
We don't talk anymore
Forgive me

Words are just words
Unless there's feelings behind them
I can't stop loving you
But you hate me
Which feeling is behind these?

Words so sweetly heard
And so delicately placed
Words filled with love
Words twisted with fate

A word so deep and kind
With broken hearts dragged behind
A love so strong and true
Completely lost in you

Forgetting of the past
To build something to last
Forgetting of a we
That was never meant to be
Never for you
Never even for me

But the memories run dry
Like the tears in my eyes
Words to heal the past
Words meant to last
Words to soothe your soul
Fill all the space of the time to unfold

A strength growing a new
All because of you
This fire burning away the pain
Saving the sanction of my brain

Love so true in you
Knowing the sweetest words
Will always be the opposite
Of your old lies untrue
That you spoke to me
When all I did was love the heart in you

But at last we have found our closure
Full exposure of what we held so much closer
A memory of you
Will always ignite me
And imploding explosion of light to grow
To heal what's buried so deep inside my skull.

Forgiveness...
Such an easy thing to most people,
Yet so difficult to others.
It can be a Blessing to some,
But a Curse to most.
Why should we forgive?
Why?
Because sometimes,
It's not just them that needs closure.
Without forgiveness,
We would be eaten up inside.
With Guilt, Heartache, and Remorse.
Forgiveness is the most oldest form of Mercy, not just for them,
But for Ourselves.
Because holding all that Hatred and Pain inside
Will **** you.
So Love more,
Hate Less,
And
Forgive often.
Because Life is not worth living If
Your Head is clouded with Self Doubt.

You know I'm a simple human, I don't worry about much except for school, and food, and work opportunities, and the future in general.

And the future is big, it's one of my personal biggest fears, connected to my fear of the unknown.

I like to know when and where things happen and why. Needless to say, I'm an organized person.

I don't worry about much.
Sorry, I lied, I worry way more than I used to.

I can't do much of anything without needing confirmation and reassurance that I'm gonna be okay.

Mostly because I'm not okay.

Sorry, I shouldn't do this.
I do this thing where everything I write becomes about the same sorry tragedy, starring me as the main character.

But far from any kind of protagonist.

My best friend texts me and asks me if I'm doing okay, and I tell them "I don't want to talk about the end of the world".

At least, that's what I would say if I had a best friend.

Sorry, am I lying too much? There's only been two lies, and that's too much on the record for most people so just don't stop to address my mouth, just walk away in hopes that I might shut up.

When I was a kid, it becomes the end of the world when a classmate lets the entire class know who your crush is. And that sinking feeling that happens when I wonder if Jason would like a girl like me.

So yeah, the world's ending. But 10 years later Jason turned into a *******, so it's not that big of a deal.

If you believe in multiple dimensions, any one of those worlds could end just when the story gets good, like a cliff hanger that never gives you closure, or when a song cuts off because your phone died.

Like popping the question and before deciding to spend the rest of your life with someone you might love forever, the world splits in two and you fall away.

The world ends.

I want to live to answer that question like the world won't end until it has an answer from me. But somedays, even I'm indecisive.

When a test score comes back and it's just below what you wanted or needed it to be, the world ends.
When you put on your seatbelt on before your first driver's exam, the world ends.
When there is only one Oreo cookie left in the package, the world definitely ends.

December 21st, 2012, we were so convinced the world was gonna end, we made a movie about it that only managed to get 39% on Rotten Tomatoes.

And where was I the night before?

In karate class. My sensei standing before the class, shrugging it off saying "So the world's ending tomorrow... let's do some work".

The world goes on.

But when I woke up successfully the day after doomsday on the 22nd, I was surprised to be alive. Because what is any average kid supposed to think?

I was scared. But we continued on to Christmas anyway.

2017 comes along and we have yet another eclipse, one of many passed and yet to come.

I did not look up to see the sky shining of falling, my heart couldn't take it.

I am told, it is a sign. A link in the long chain of events leading up to coming of the Anti Christ, to the ends of the earth as we know it.

I have woken up countless times more scared of the ground falling out from under me than the sky falling onto me. I don't need alien invasions, or nuclear war, or acid rain, or killer volcanoes, or my own depression because the world is ending, and I don't want to talk about it.

They ask, "You're a Christian aren't you? Why are you scared? Of death, or the end, or anything?".

Being religious, and afraid are two worlds I'm told are never meant to touch, but yet they are still ending. I still haven't read the book of Revelation like a "Good Christian" Because I'm afraid of scaring myself. The world is going to end!

I did have a best friend.

Or at least, I treated them that way.

They said, "Death, is just another adventure. that's why I'm not scared of it."

I ruined my friendship with them about 8 months ago.

I haven't spoken to them in...

In..

I'm sorry. I can't remember.

But suddenly it feels like the first grade crush reveal all over again.

But it's different now.

Someone has left me.
And it hurts.

The world is ending...

And I don't want to talk about it.

this is not a goodbye,
this is my death, the epitome of my burried-7ft-under-the-ground
naive with both eyes wide ******* open
this, i said, is not a goodbye
this is my war, another version of daily sword cry between my body and the body of my body
both bleeding, both pleading
this, my friend, is never what a goodbye should look like
this is just me, hanging, begging, knocking and crawling,
just another tv show about breaking plates, or lost planes, or abandoned planets
just another boring 195 minutes episode of empty asylums, dry lips, and false alarms

or this is
the paragon of your goodbye,
alongside with my everyday asked question of “so what comes after death?”
or “how many nights was it my mom cried after the divorce?”
or “how do two souls that used to see each other bare drift away with full armor of clothes?”
or how much more do i have to pour, because i have dried all of my words, and metaphor,
there's only so many ways of describing how it feels like to be destroyed

(but this is time for me too to realize that without a goodbye, it's still
you
and me going straight back to
0
or -1
or -100)

i understand so this is your way of saying goodbye ; not even saying it at all
so there was no closure
just me left confused in a never ending roller coaster ride
so this is your way of saying goodbye ; you ******* erased the word 'good' out of it

It's been 2 months
Since we parted
But we've been
Together for 2 years
It's probably warm
Where you are
But I'm still here
Recovering from
The coldness of
Your words
It's so hard to
Wait for closure
From someone like you
But you're worth it
So I'll wait.

I thought you would come back
I never changed because I wanted to be
The True Love you first fell in love with
With you, my feelings were always heightened
My life, wilder
But now I have tired myself out with
The perpetual cycle that winds my soul
I am nostalgic for a former life
and love that doesn't exist any more

I get this feeling a lot
Same room
Same weather
Same regrets
Calm but numb
Binded together with
An underlying sadness

I carry around quotes I found
Saving them up to tell you one day
There is nothing here though
But the flowers I bought
They are drying up and dying
Like their owner
I think I need closure

Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning.
Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips.
Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess.
Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying.
But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts.
But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it.
I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye."
I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces.
I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad...
All in retrospect, friend.

there won't be many shrouded gowns
or tears or tales to tell
above a bed with tiny frowns
to watch my carcass swell

perhaps a friend or cousin
no colleagues from past tense
i'd be shocked to see a dozen
if i don't outlast the 'rents

don't go too far out of way
or bring a spot of gin
just to watch my bones decay
and sorrow o'er my skin

kiss my head or curse or bawl
i won't know whose farewell
staring at a furnace wall
while looking up from hell

for now i'm lying here to show her
i can’t bear without your face
who knows if you'll need closure
i'll be dressed for just in case

i’d have lived for you but only
let's not talk about regrets
i'll wish you'd never known me
but hate to think you might forget

The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.

My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.

I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?  
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.

Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.

I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.

You
closed yourself
and returned open.
I
shut my eyes
to see the darkness.