Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

She was daydreaming again,
and that was the most dangerous
thing she could do, but she
couldn’t help but be happy for
a minute or a two, she was desperate,
desperate to leave this so called
life of hers.

She daydreamed about the
noise in her house full of her
parents laughter instead of
angry voices, or silence because they
had nothing to say instead of
silence with tension.

She daydreamed about her sister
living past June because the doctors
say she will die soon.

She daydreamed that her brother would
stop drinking every night to numb the
the pain away because alcohol
doesn’t drain it away, it stays and drowns
you until you can’t breathe.

She daydreamed that she could leave
this so called life of hers.

When I was small
I walked on fairy dust and
my dreams were as tall
as skyscrapers towering
above the universe
inside of me, was the galaxy.
I was born of the cosmos,
full of light and love
passionate in my quest to
give this to others.
But as I grew my star began to fade,
stars need love and light to survive
and deprived of both my blazing fire
transformed into weak candlelight.
At school I had learnt it was easier
to hide your light
than to stand out as different
and be extinguished in an instant.
So I kept myself to myself
at the back of the class,
knowing the answers but not
shouting them out.
I daydreamed, and doodled
stars on the corners
of my books, all the while
I could hear the universe
calling out to me to trust,
that we are all born of this
cosmic stardust.

I. When I was 5, I thought recess was probably the best thing ever invented. Until the first autumn rainfall, when the sky opened up and unleashed it's sorrow unto the earth. The children were kept inside that day. As the storm thundered on around us, we ran to play on the other side of the classroom. The boys charged to the shelf with legos and blocks, while the girls lined up at the miniature kitchen. I followed them to the tiny toy oven, even though, secretly, I thought those lincoln logs looked really fun.

II. When I was 6, I thought my first grade teacher was the sweetest woman to ever have lived. Then, one day she lined us to to go outside, calling out, "Boys on one side, girls on the other" reminding of us of a divide between genders that we did not understand. Marking off differences on a checklist that none of us had read yet.

III. When I was 7, like most little girls I daydreamed of the perfect wedding. The part I played over and over in my head was my brother walking me down the aisle, "giving me away". Because even in the second grade, some part of me knew that I belonged to the men in my life.

IV. When I was 8, I learned that the praise I'd receive from the boys I called my brothers would always be conditional. No matter what award I received, how fast I ran, how tough I fought, how smart I was, I'd always be "pretty good for a girl". And that is never a compliment.

V. When I was 9, the YMCA told me I had to stop playing the sport I'd loved for 5 years because I was a girl. I took my first feminist stand by quitting, because I don't care what they say, softball and baseball are not the same thing.

VI. When I was 10, my brother informed me that the day I brought home a boyfriend was the day he bought a gun. Because that's how you protect your property.

VII. When I was 11, a boy ran up to me on the playground and told me I was cute. For a moment, I felt confident, a feeling that was foreign to me. Until the boy and his friend started laughing uncontrollably, as if they couldn't believe that I'd ever think that was true. I cried a lot that day because I hadn't yet realized that my self worth wasn't directly proportional to how many boys found me attractive.

VIII. When I was 12, my aunt gave me my first make up kit for my birthday. When my grandmother tried to force me to wear it, I refused, yelling, "It's my face!" She proceeded to tell me that I'd never get a boyfriend with that attitude. After all, who was I to want to be in control of my own body?

IX. When I was 13, I thought gym was a subject invented by sadistic hell fiends created just to torture teenage girls. It was the hottest day of the year, and I'd just ran a mile, so I opted not to change out of my tank top before continuing on to my next class. A teacher cornered me at my locker, advising me to put on a jacket before I became a distraction to the boys.

X. When I was 14, I confessed to my mother the wanderlust inside of me. Exclaiming about travelling to new places, having new experiences. That's when she looked me dead in the eye and told me to always take someone with me. Preferably, a man. I couldn't bring myself to be angry. We both knew what happened to women alone on the streets, and I felt bad for the way I made her eyes shine with worry each time I left the house without her.

XI. I am 15, and I walk with my fists clenched and my head down. I am always conscious of what clothes I wear and whether or not they could attract "the wrong kind of attention". I attempt to shield myself from the world, but I can feel my barriers cracking with each terrifying statistic, each late night news story, each girl that was never given justice. The world is a war zone, and every woman must put her armor on before walking outside. My life has been one battle after the next. I am a 15 year old war veteran, and have the scars to prove it. I've learned from my experiences and am left with just one question:

At what age does the war end?

The latest issues of Tales of Horror, is perfectly positioned in my bible. My eyes gleam with satisfaction as I read how a werewolf ekes out just deserts to a mass ******. A small chuckle slips through my lips. Barely perceptible but in church my mom has eagle ears. With swiftness that would leave the wolfman in awe the comic is swiped from my bible, and I take a smack to the back of my head.


My eyes get heavy. I lose the will to stay awake. Elbow safely secured on the pew, I lean forward as if I am enraptured by what the preacher has to say. Then let go, so close to sleep, a way to get away from the doldrums. The old man drones on in a monotone. Suddenly, he raises his voice. My arms collapses causing my forehead cracks against the pews. A red mark starts to form inching its way across my face like a mutant birthmark. Now I am awake. Eyes glaring forward.

     The brown baptismal curtain reminds me of nutty buddies. My mouth waters with the fantasy of devouring the whole curtain, like some giant trucker. A swelling stomach riding over my cliché buckle, until my fat explodes into some sort of creepy communion wafers and wine. It splatters my fellow church goers in some sick form of salvation. The pale parishioners panic then succumb to some unknown hunger feasting upon the remnant of me like a bunch zombies.  Freed from the need to be rational they rage on. Dead men and women begin to leave the church ready to infect the world with their form of living death.

A hand smacks the back of my head. Mother glowers, the intensity of her gaze is meant to put the fear of god into me, ironically.  The preacher carries on. Some **** about the armor of gods and the denizens of hell oozes out of his dry voice.


My ears ***** up. The sound of mighty warriors ring through the church. Savage blows bounce off the shields of saints. Angels scream, as demons pluck their feathers, plunging them into the furnace that is hell. Smoke fills the pews with the noxious fumes of burning flesh. The **** moan for mercy. Fingers try to rise from perdition only to be chopped off by the razor sharp wings of the Archangels.

“Back to hell you vermin.” The Angels scream.

The recently and expensively redone floors now wear a masses of ****** bodies, some corpses are demons, some are angels. However, all bodies bleed the same color.

Satan’s sinister grin fills the stain glass windows. A fury of wind shatters each pane, causing shards of glass to rain down upon the parishioners. My fellow church goers scream and run away. Their flesh is marred by bleeding scratches. Beneath their feet other parishioners are trampled. Moans of agony rise from the ground, followed by the rising white ash. Puffs of dark smoke swirl around and….

and my mother smacks me in the back of the head again.
“Pay attention.” She growls.

Looking at the clock, I smile devilishly.  It is time for the last prayer. The preacher passes it on to one of the deacons. A small stout figure brushes back his black thinning and greasy hair, and begins to pray.  

“What a relief.” I think.

Fifteen minutes later the deacon is still praying. He has cycled back to the same **** over and over. I swear sometimes the deacons think it’s a contest. They are trying to see who can pray the best.

A hand slams down from the heavens smashing through the ceiling and crushing the Deacon. His obese frame is flattened causing it to explode like a popped pimple. Red juices and slippery viscera paint the aisles.  

A heavenly voice scolds, “knock it off. People have things to do.”
A laugh pierces the pew.

I get another smack to the back of my head. My mother scowls.
“That is it you’re grounded.”
“Awe ****.” I moan and take another smack to the back of my head.

I knew a kid in highschool
Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement,
He was a friend of a friend at most,
The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class
Second seat from the right, second to last from the back
The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows
I remember that scene like a diagram,
I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but,

I knew a kid in highschool
He was best friends with my childhood best friend
He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy
I remember the last words I said to him
Well not quite, I remember the vague idea
Something along the lines of it only gets worse
He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played
Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world
He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work
I told him it only gets worse

I knew a kid in highschool
He killed himself during the weekend
The Monday they announced in I was sick
I was sick
His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore
Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page
The page to a book I couldn’t afford
He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust

I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence
That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide
I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die
I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence
No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name
I knew a kid in highschool

While reading
A romance novel
Being inside the mind of a man
Listening to his thoughts
It makes me create my own
In wonder
Like
I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of
Kissing my lips
Which he finds perfect
While he's stared at me

I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of
What it would be like
To be my boyfriend
To be the only guy
In the world
That I could
Hold
Touch
Kiss
That I could trust
That I could love

I wonder if any guy
Has ever thought of me
Long after we've seen
Each other

I wonder if any guy
Has blatantly flirted with me
And grew frustrated
Because I didn't pick up on it

I wonder if any guy
Has found me intimidating
To the point
Where it makes them believe
That I'm out of their league

I wonder if any guy
Believed that I was
Beautiful
Perfect even
That I was the embodiment of everything
They craved for

I wonder if any guy
Made me the topic
Of endless conversations
He had
With his closest friends

I wonder if any guy
Believed that I made them a better person

I wonder if any guy
After briefly meeting me
Wanted to impress me
In order to feel worthy of me

I wonder if any guy
Became amused to the thought
Of how I had no clue on just how much I affected him
All while I was talking to him

I wonder if any guy
Wondered what it would feel like
To have our hands intertwined

I wonder if any guy
Wanted to pour out his heart to me
But thought that my small
Delicate hands
Wouldn't be able to contain
His unyielding proclamation

I wonder if any guy
Thinks that I'm the most perfect girl
They have ever met
And that whoever I end up with
Will be the "luckiest *******" in the world

I wonder if any guy
Spent hours
Over analyzing my response
Or actions
Hoping that they were more
Than just kindness

I wonder if any guy
Had an internal battle
About the words he spoke to me
Wondering if they were
Stupid or cheesy

I wonder if any guy
Has gotten nervous
Whenever I smiled or talked
To them

I wonder if any guy
Wished that I was his girl
That he could proudly proclaim
His
To the entire world
With bold confidence
In his actions and words

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been hyperaware of my
Every movement
Like you would with a huge crush
That's in the room

I wonder if any guy
Had to fight the strong urge
Of wrapping their arms
Around my body
In an all consuming embrace

I wonder if any guy
Snuck secret glances
In my direction
Without my knowledge
Just so he could admire me
From afar
Without me noticing

I wonder if any guy
Showed pictures of me
From social media
To his friends
To explain his infatuation

I wonder if any guy
Looked at me
And silently contemplated
If there was even a guy
On earth
Worthy enough
For me

I wonder if any guy
Wished he had the confidence
To go up me and strike a conversation
But felt too nervous to

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been
Overwhelmed or confused
By the unfamiliar emotions
That they receive
Whenever they see or think
About me

I wonder if any guy
Made me the muse
To an endless amount of romantic poems
That I'll never get to hear

I wonder if any guy
Misses the mundane conversations
That we would have
Because they meant
Everything
To him

I wonder if any guy
Daydreamed of interactions
Where I would fall
Madly in love with him
Because he felt more comfortable
In his imagination

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been turned on
By the brief
Contact of our bodies
Accidentally brushing against each other

I wonder if any guy
Was dying for me to just know his name
So he could be comforted with knowing
That I knew of him
So that when I saw him passing by
My face would light up with recognition
Instead of indifference

I wonder if any guy
Saw me in public
Didn't know me or my name
But hit his friends
Trying to get their attention
So that he could point me out
Because he found me beautiful

I wonder if any guy
Has ever purposely chosen an outfit
Hoping that it would catch my attention

I wonder if any guy
Purposely avoided me
Because he was too shy
To be near me

I wonder if any guy
Had dreams of me
That he wished would be
His reality

I wonder if any guy
Wanted to pursue me
But hesitated
Because he thought
That there was no way
I didn't already have a boyfriend

I wonder if any guy
Has ever been in awe
With everything that I've done
Just because it's me

I wonder if any guy
Decided not to ask me out
Because they thought
That they weren't good enough
For me

I wonder if any guy
Has looked at me
With eyes filled with unspoken love
But mine
Filled with so much innocence
Never truly saw theirs

I wonder if any guy
Admired my ****** features
As I spoke to him
Seconds before coming to to conclusion
That I was beautiful

I wonder if any guy's
Last thought
Before he went to bed
Was about me

I wonder if any guy
Was dying to tell me
That they were in love with me
But felt too scared to do so

I wonder what people think
Those that know
And don't know me
When they look at me

I wonder...

I've daydreamed of my burial day,
I've thought about,
who I want to come,
If anyone would come,
and you understand,
if you've been on death's end before,

but if what's more important,
or adequate,
is the music performed,
then we get our ends,

and as the soulless bodies glance down,
as I'm buried in,
there will be a concert,
I'll hear,
six feet underground.

I will,
Just
hear,
Sound.


*R.I.P.

Cold metal
On cold skin.
A cold heart
And a dead mind.
Black and white,
Shades of grey,
There's a dire need for a bit of color.
A twitch of the wrist,
The path of a blade,
Releases the pain,
The hatred and distress,
And finally lets some color back in.

Deep in his heart
He will miss it as it goes
A pool of rain
His reflection once showed him
Once upon a thousand times
A quiet man once daydreamed
Of the different formations of rain

Yet , what did he have to gain?
The war was almost over
He was such a lonely orphan
He could never confess his silence
He once heard the
Static sounds of rain
A presence of tear drops
Surrounding his eccentric mind

Everything was fading away
Time was just another memory lapse
He daydreamed until he could
No longer hear the sounds of tears
He had once remembered
When he was a child back
Before rain was so feared and hated
Before it was seen as a novel of sin

Under his dear black umbrella
He waited for nothing alone
And the clouds were a
Peppered smokey grey
They were viewed as
The separation of loss
An image of abandonment
From a hollow sky

Arthur McKnight was a powerful man and New York was his playground.  Not that he ventured out anymore at night now that he had met Evangeline.  The long days of mind-numbing numbers he crunched managing Wall Street hedge funds had taken their toll on him over the years, but becoming intimate with Evangeline had saved him, had changed him in ways so fundamental that for him she was all that mattered.

     Arthur no longer noticed these subtle differences.  He daydreamed by the dim LCD light of stock tickers, craving the touch that only his woman could bestow upon him.  He had surrendered completely to her bliss.

     These days when he woke to her already gone from his Upper West Side apartment all that was left of her presence was a lipstick kiss on the mirror and a bottle of Sally Hansen Tangerine Orange nailpolish.  The quiet was deafening, but that bottle of Sally Hansen left on the bathroom counter held the promise of Evangeline's return.

     It was just after 7 p.m. when Arthur made it home and he could already sense her.  She was coming.  He strode with purpose to his master suite, spying the black thigh-highs and silky red dress he had laid out for her arrival.  The waiting was unbearable, and Arthur finally broke, needing Evangeline so badly he could smell her perfume, could taste her in his throat.  It was time; no more waiting.

     "You look lovely tonight, Evangeline," Arthur croaked aloud as he pulled the first of the thigh highs onto his shaven legs...

I daydreamed my way to the sea
                                                             ­   and made a sandcastle my home.

discovered on my search today
how murakami and itoi
wrote short stories together
in nineteeneightysomething
and daydreamed of the corners
in tokyo i might never see
again all while amazed and longing
for someplace nifty to myself

the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.

I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger *******. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?

Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.

Afraid

I see the fear , hear it in her voice
She need not say but I know , she'd rather keep the norm than chase the moon.
Ride a bicycle with her past and leave the future left to uncertainty.
A shining love destined for shadows.
Unwilling to let go,and trust the roads paved for our affection.
A behind the smile lay a lifetime of wishes shared , fantasies daydreamed , and even memories made.
To much to lose , and everything to gain.
Stick with the safety of what she knows , rather than take a chance on what she doesn't.
True love only passes once in a lifetime , and she's willing to let it pass for a piece of her past.
She hides the ring , but doesn't bury it , she hides the love but won't pursue it.
Under the cloak if darkness I find her waiting , I want her to take my hand , step into tomorrow together , but shell never truly say goodbye to then , she wants the now , but she's afraid of tomorrow,
A tomorrow that my never be , because she's afraid

The sky always kept its word
She had seen Jupiter's approach,
Her nights lay heavy across the sky
She giggled, she daydreamed
She was odd.

Ha! and I had hopes
for a better ending.

Placing my hand on the window pane, I felt it knocking
outside, as the rain ****** buckets and washed my car.
Every few seconds, the sky was talking,
but I would never let it in.

I stepped down into a dour acceptance
and bought a moderately-priced raincoat.
The spitting sky would never cease
And I began to imagine which items I owned could float.

I wished I chose swimming lessons over piano,
but at least because of it I had one.
I figured it might become a useful raft
if indeed no one ever again sees the sun.

How much water can fit under the sky? I wondered,
and at what depth will my body finally rest?
I realized I hadn't the time to consider intangibles
or to issue to God any vague, indirect requests.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, just stop!
There was a moat between houses now,
with pets and telephone poles and trees as islands.
The chill of cataclysm began to freeze my brow.

Later on my roof wearing my raincoat I daydreamed
about the things I loved underneath the silvery-grey.
I waved to my neighbor and he sadly waved back,
and I held up my glass of wine and watched the world wash away.

After a neat little bite
She slid his sandwich into its baggie
And smiled,
Never tiring of her little joke.

“See, it’s alright. Im here with you, having a little fun!”

After the bell he peered into the bag.
And there it was
And a note:
“I love you, Aaron. “

This morning’s mixture of boredom and fear punctuated by her love

Then he daydreamed of helping with the clothespins,

Sheets snapping in the wind

they say opposites attract,
but then,
how are we in contact?
we met in the same hiding place, with walls up to our embrace.
same empty wells on our faces
same invisible threads on our lips
slouched posture
boney hips.
i was a blank canvas of a girl and you were a boy who liked to spill your ink on ****** white pages.
i was painfully boring and you were the ruins after a hurricane.
you had stars for eyes and flames that licked your lips like you were the only wildfire out there and i was nothing but a crack on a sidewalk.
you had every natural disaster dancing on your fingertips and i was dying for you  to touch me.
but your palms only sweat when you daydreamed about kissing me and i was infatuated with your dreamy eyes
you  kept galaxies in your palms just to give me a sense of home every time we held hands.
silly boy hasnt anybody told you death doesnt have a home.
hand in hand we are filthy image to them they try to **** us
but you spill anything about us to anyone that would read
according to you there wasn't any us, ink all over paper yet never any love
they asked you if you ever loved someone you said you never really cared
seems like i was the air you breathed in but coughed out as dust instead.

The stone, cold sidewalk lay below,
It's getting closer,
I bid the last breath to blow,
Flames, heart-racing,blue-black,windless night.
Tears forming, evaporating.....evaporating.....ditto,
Depression made clear,
Behind eyes,the devil's motto.
Confusion at my right hand,clarity disappears.
Firefighter's water,
My beloved abode no more,
Tears of men,hellfire licking the walls.
I stood,staring from afar,
Drowning in the torment that has come to call,
The world hushed,my vision torn to fragments,
Heat of salty tears.
Everything frozen in time,
My fears forever mine.
Confusion lays unsettled in the bowels of the soul,
Wreathing thick murrain,
Screaming at the misery of the brain.
I was startled,whimpering with bewilderment,
Everything before me in a trance-like state,
Then began awaking.
The men with sweet water,dear,
Starting surging backwards,
Their faces devoid of thought,without fear.
Like rewinding a record,
Time flew backward,
I stumbling,stunned,steel-cold.
Boom!,
Explosions,
I'm unable to move.
Then suddenly I stood up,
Walked unwillingly to the fiery effulgence,
Led by a teasing indecision,an untouched mystery,
Depleted of resilience.

The world stood still once more,
Froze me in place,
I fell into dementia's eye,
Nothing beclouding the gore.
Then regenerating,
Time modulating from cinders,beautiful phoenix,
Reality it began disseminating,
Blurry images flood my sight,
Blood,anger,depression rites,
Recapitulations,I beg for light.

My husband stood before me,weaving misery and woe,
Cursing me,making me small,
Shoving me under,way down low,
He stands as cold as ice,
Yet he burns inside,
He swings,hits,spits,
A love forgotten,
Dead inside.
He cuts me with the knife,
Watches my blood run,
My reality decaying,he's having fun.

Deep in the bathroom tub,
I lay fighting back shivers,
Making in the water red ripples,
Release my body's crave,
I uncovered in my mind a mystical grave.
Such dementia to see him flailing in my hands!

The daydreamed lust seemed inconceivable,
For the fiend still lives.
On our bed I saw him lay,
I remember how me met,
I fell into his arms,
Addicting,like to a powerful drug.
Conceived for evil,hmm,I might've found my way,
The idea came quickly,
I marveled at the absence of my active conscience.
I now creeped down the stairs,slithered!
Choking on hysterics,
On my spine angst lingered.
The kitchen door swung open,I stepped in,
Looking for th'inevitable tools,
Fury flared,kerosene and match I fumbled,
Feeling the arctic love as it crumbled.

So quickly I flew up the stairs,
My,my,my someone's anxious!
Ready to sear him,ignite his cold,fringe his hairs!
I fed my pain with venom-bitter hatred,
Stood ready to fry the *******,
My anticipation was sacred.
I stood before his bed,
Banishing the now present,dark,heavy,penetrating conscience,
The dream inside instead,I fed.
The mind picked up outside,
Midnight blows in through the window,
Dances 'round the room.
The kerosene I quickly threw,
Exiling any regret,
Ready to add the final ingredient to my dark,dangerous brew.
I striked,threw,watched the match,
Spinning through the air,
Waiting for the flames to hatch.
He awoke with the arrival of the fire,
Dark screams I like,
My cold desire.
Mariticide committed,
I tried not to laugh,
Joy was a pain,
Then my shrill scream was echoed by his bones,
Everything fell,the chains of the brain.
I smiled,now a black widow out of her cage,
Beaming at the empty hole of mis'ry,
Finally made satiable,the sin's wage.
Freedom came then,
Shattering,a worthy phenomenon,
It came into my crazy world,
Like a cool and cleansing rain.
                                                      -**Firefly

Whilst you daydreamed,
your eyes seemed to lose their sheen
and you'd forget  how to empathise.
You shut the car door hard
as  if someone who wanted
to aspirate closure.
We spent two nights at the Cooden Beach hotel,
so we could hear June Tabor and Oyster band,
proceeding this performance ,
we had our four slices of toast and an Americano.
Your pink canvas bag
and polished  stilettos
underneath the dinner table
hid an issue or two
playing a parallel game.

To be here, to be there, and not to be;
   Thou hath the whole rivers inside of me,
Thou art a night, a lonely sunny day;
   That hath melted my souls away.
To be thy blood, thy lover, thy asylum;
   To dwell within thee, to become thy poems.
Thou hath carried all my dried wounds away;
   Thou art meant for me, and I shall stay.

Their peaceful songs, too much noise;
   Titled feuds, crowned falsehoods,
My homeland, unknown to my youth;
   Stealing my sanity, my warmed voice.
Their music too, from a broken home;
   Telling me they would ne’er come;
My hometown, yet foreign to me;
   Adrift in bulk, losing my poetry.

To be here, to live, but not to see;
   Yet to be unchained, and break free,
Thou art a yard, a bush, a pear tree;
   Thou yield the whole love inside of me,
Thou stirred the birth of my presence;
   Thou breathed love to my concerns.
Thou art my reverence, my faith;
   Thou revoked my disgrace, my hate.

Their masterpiece, vainly serene;
   When they could sing, I was not seen;
Too common, like the youth about us
   Not knowing when life could go past.
Today shall end, but merely so
   They could not smell yesterday, no;
Nor shall their hard grieves glance further,
   Now, everlastingly, forever.

I long to be in tales faraway;
   That they shall not see me in today;
Not in winter, nor the heat of June;
   Not in daylight, nor under the moon.
Not in water, nor stark frost;
   They could not see me under their rose;
Then I could break free, I could see you
   To tell you about the truth, to give you—my love.

One island is too grey to me;
   To the southern edge of Earth;
If I said I could sail for thee;
   Would thou be my tree, my hearth?
But not to be here, ever and again;
    To clear my soul of their sold pain,
To be alone, but I could be fine;
    To head to the North with my mind.

One soil thought she was too charming;
    Nor that I knew them, that morning,
And in spring, their snarky heirs
    Bowed down to *** and stark roses;
None of what I did look fair,
    Nor the clean spruce of my prose.
Everywhere I went, just the ground
    Grinning kindly at my crusted sounds.

One land was too high, and glamour
    Encapped the heights of its odour;
Encompassing the love I had, and here
    This is the land of birth, but hear—
Love is felt nowhere close to me, so
    I shall be bound to the other I know;
I shall launch my sails, and my voyage
    Departs at time’s coming of age.

One ground became too proud, and he
    Lifted himself off the myriads of me;
The rebel, the judge, the jubilant
    The only consolation I wanted;
He could not catch in me, my sanctity
    And all love putrefied, and died.
To whom, that I became, still a mystery
    A waste, a wailing, a soiled story.

To run free, to breathe away from here
   To become the whole calls I hear;
Being the roads with stars and sunlight
   By the rosebuds of the Northern Light.
To be the prominent in me, and to thee
   That I come home, every day and night;
To be free to love, and blindly sing
    Until dawn comes to force, on chaste mornings.

To come closer, to be with you
    To drift away from wrong to true;
And call my love back again, from the woods
    Planted wild in mists and dreamful shadows.
To call you home, by the green fields
    With careened paths and gravel shields;
To be the poet again, the one I have—
    To embrace all that I once left.

To be thy finger, thy wrist, thy face;
   To be sole white and pure of lace;
To be the accessories of thy dreams;
   To be the wife of thy white nights.
When thou heard the frost, and screamed;
   My nights went more fearful then they seemed,
Too much fate and moist, poorly blended;
   My nightmares then ne’er ended.

To be the living, the door, the house;
   To drench the desires thou aroused,
To be the winter, the lilac to behold;
   To be felt as my love goes too bold,
And not ignored as I go beyond;
   Not to be halted, be scorned, be torn,
I have loved every day, every night—
   Then I have dreamt of your bluest sight.
  
To cherish my breath, my air, my chest;
   The living power of all our flesh,
The hungriness, but knowledge of my heart
   Not to take our exchanged poems apart;
For I have played my part, and kept my love
   For you, and as here ‘tis not enough;
I have loved, and unloved again
   My heart hath been a scorching pain.

To swim in this image of thine, and see
    Which memory I shall keep to me;
In which my arts shall come to presence
    From noon to night, and prevalent;
In which t’ere is only omnipresence
    With luminous pages, and their scent;
Too ambiguous too deny, clear to hate
    They shall admire it, though ‘tis late.

To be the vine, and grapes of thy yard
    To be the fine fruits of toil, so hard;
To be the last one to read the sky, that
    I shall still embrace, to the last.
Not to be here, in that life again;
    Only the sorrows and dramas of pain,
I shall soar for a greater gain;
    Feeding off clouds, drinking the rain.

To be the tales, rhythms of my heart;
    To admire from far away,
And unite back again when ‘tis time;
    All those cascades of madness and solitude;
Now, all smaller poesies shall rise and rhyme;
   Calling the same hymns and magnitude;
I shall be there, and not long now—
    I’ll stand still, and not flinch somehow.

To be the dress, the fashion of my love;
    My feelings now imitate the skies,
All emotions are moderate, and enough
    My heartbeat shall tell no lies;
Then, all torn sonnets cross my mind;
    At that time though, thou shall be mine;
I shall be there soon, tomorrow—
   Wait for me there, as thou shall know.

To be the kind, the temperate of my heart
   To be the pen and the poem, the bard;
All notions are justified, and seen
    It shall be autumn that I arrive in;
When, all stanzas clearly written
    And all workings exotic and firmed;
At that time though, thou shall see—
   All the loving and excitement in me.

To be the warmth, the sustained cold
    And the reason my sight still beholds;
All thoughts are visible, and bearable
    All daydreamed paths grow’n feasible;
That, all visions notably bound
    Thou shall embrace my tones and sounds;
With graceful moves, lithe and sleek
    I cometh to love thee, every day of the week.

To be the charm, the one in thy arms
    I shall surrender to Midnight’s swarms;
And be the one for thee, for the night
   Over all brief and lengthy sights;
There, holding thee all winter and summer
   A destination that lasts forever;
At that time soon, thou shall love me
   And my presence of eternity.

To be the destiny, on carpeted nights
   That magic works through our frights;
Making fears but a buoyant gift,
   And the beauty of the night so deep.
Holding me, lulling thyself to sleep
   A slumber to remember, too keep.
Thy florid hair falling into my face;
   Thy locks flirting with my embrace.

To be the envisioned, the right
   To be thy illusion, thy envied night;
And be the one who shall not fail
   I shall crumble out of my wooden shell;
To throw myself into that golden mark
   That becomes thee, oft’ by fall’n sparks;
To come with boughs of joy, and laugh;
   To fulfill thee with all my love.

I've traveled through outer space,
sat buckled to the seat,
daydreamed
with aliens all around.

The outside domain was a blur,
I rode supersonic steel
knifing lush countryside
between chasms
of skyscraper structures.

I tried to decipher
the language of such folk,
who seemed unfazed by my jokes.

Their gaze, the same slant,
followed my every move,
I felt like an un-caged freak,
myself an alien
in a future-world
riding bullets.

You were the beginning
Of a story
I daydreamed,
You stepped out of my mind
And into reality,
One sided conversations
Were a thing of the past,
I grew fond of you
This reflection born
But no one saw you,
And the doubts set in;
Were you real at all?
Or had I just crossed the line
In my head; where facts
Were just as real as fiction,
This set you ablaze
And as the fires burned; they consumed
What little of you I knew,
And as you disappeared
A cloud of ashes
I knew you were;
The shortest chapter in my book...
© okpoet

I won’t lie.
Once those eyes met mine,
I imagined.
When I watched you run your hands through your hair multiple times,
I daydreamed.
But when I saw that genuine smile and laugh you gave once I made you laugh,
I fell.

december 23/24th 4:06 a.m.

    She couldn't help being drawn to him, his mischievous smile that seemed to hold something back, the air of power that surrounded him, the fire he walked with, self-assured, confident, worrying only about himself. He was untouchable.
    He was everything she dreamed of becoming, although he was only human. He worked hard to achieve his wants, needs, desires, while she could only dream of having the ability to pursue her own wants, needs, and desires. She daydreamed day and night, wasting away, many plans that could have been but never were; she didn't realize her potential, and when she did, she ignored it, keeping it hidden to avoid moving on with life - one of the things she wanted - for fear of change. She could never be like him in that way, which she knew. Seeing him, his eyes meeting hers, fleeting smiles exchanged, she knew it was nothing short of fate.
    She wanted him to save her from himself. He never would.
    She looked to him with questions, fears, an open wound waiting to be healed. She believed he had all the answers, that he was all-knowing, an otherworldly force that could save the day, much like a superhero. She couldn't face the reality that he was a man, only a young boy struggling to keep it together for himself. He too looked up at the moon in wonder, she seated on his lap, gazing through the window with longing eyes. His words would cut her like a jagged blade, always the same question, What are you looking for? She never knew how to respond that she didn't know, her eyes were drawn to the moon, shrouded in mystery and enchantment. He didn't realize she often looked at him that way, absentminded, dreamy, curious eyes that wanted to know more, more, she wanted to know all. She couldn't handle the truth.
    Small things set her off. It was never the big picture, it was always things that could be changed but failed to come to the surface until they became problematic in every aspect of their lives. It was for that reason that they argued publicly, unable to mask the anger that they had suppressed for so long, an anger igniting inside of them, impossible to ignore much less stop. They would shout, throw things, drawing attention to themselves, one of her biggest pet peeves. He didn't care if they looked at him or not, he only saw her, the way her lips moved rapidly, spitting out words, hands making gestures to express her fury which she couldn't contain, causing her to occasionally throw things. Excitement would run through his veins, ready to fix the problem at hand, but it was never that simple. The problem, whatever it may be, was not usually able to be solved with the wave of a hand. It would not go away overnight, she would not forget about it for years, the problems would nest in the back of her memory, rotting away, the stench a reminder that awakened when they would argue about a matter at hand, but unable to resist the previous dilemma she would bring it up, throwing it at him without warning, leaving him to fend for himself blindly.
    She had bruises on her arms, thighs, neck, his fingertips squeezing tightly to leave an imprint which reminded her he loved her, he wanted to be as close to her as possible but she felt it was impossible. He was only a memory, even when he was near, even when he was right next to her, even when he was inside of her. He was never close enough. She craved to be consumed, the way a piece of paper is engulfed by a fire, taking all, leaving ashes. She wished to be his all. She craved his taste, the smell of his hair, the feel of his rough hands, but most of all she missed the way he spoke her name quietly, the way you would a secret. She wished her name were beautiful, soothing as a lullaby, or captivating in its beauty, or different, at least. She wished her name was Luna. It was hypnotizing, exciting, bold, mysterious.
    From a young age she knew of her darkest desire, she was in touch with her worst fears, she faced her faults daily. She knew how cruel and heartless a human being could be, not of evil but of everyday people with many faces, point of views, desires of their own. She knew what they could make that person do. She knew, from the time she was a young girl of about five. The feelings of knowing seemed to come to her without having experienced the ways of another's cruelty first-hand, like intuition it hit her.
    Sitting in her man's lap, head cradled into his chest, tucked under his chin, she admitted that she knew he was hers from the moment their eyes met. Taken aback, his eyes ask dozens of questions but hold them back, waiting for her to speak up, knowing that if he asked "the wrong thing" she would shut up, feeling attacked. Sensing it was alright to talk, she told him of how she felt when he looked at her, the intuition she had spoken about before resurfacing. The urge to talk to him was like an itch unable to be reached: she knew she would regret it if she didn't. He listened carefully without saying a word while she gave details about how his eyes pierced through her, setting her on fire, electric once more. When he first spoke to her, she released a weight in her chest, the satisfaction of knowing that she would belong to a man she had only dreamt of hitting at last. What she didn't share was how she knew she belonged to him in a past life and that they were destined to be together in this one, even possibly in the next. That was why, when he looked at her, the feeling of unease that she carried most of her life melted away, satisfaction hitting her unexpectedly: he was enough - he was everything. His masculinity was intense but it excited her, encompassing her child-like ways, too precious for the outside world.

Tom said that my name sounds like an exotic flower meets medicine.
Tom said the love he witnessed in me gave him hope.
Tom said he'd make it to my wedding, because I promised he would be the flower boy.
Tom said he had a dream that I was kidnapped and he was trying to save me.
That was the last thing Tom said to me.

And I'm writing about him because I don't know what else to do to remember him;
to give him some sort of tribute of my emotion outside of clutching my chest;
to even allow myself to think about him at all.
But writing is how we met, so this is where I will keep him alive.

Tom had a full name that sounded like an old-fashioned fancy inventor.
He spoke with quick Irish wit, and every time we messaged I would imagine the day
that I could ask him to get on the phone with me so I could hear that accent for myself,
and I tried to picture his face from the two pictures I ever saw of it,
and I daydreamed about seeing a kooky smile while he held out his arms yelling,
"Duckie!!!"
He never called me anything else,
and I never came up with a nickname for him quite as splendid.

Tom told me to find him a Russian man.
He told me he had a dream that he had an unreciprocated crush on me.
(I told him I would never be so rude about it, though.)
It was apparently meant to be, however, when he "accidentally flirted" from autocorrect once.
One time he messaged me at 2am just to ask what "totes" meant.
He sent me terribly-drawn doodles of me, him, and ducks (of course)
that made him laugh so hard at himself he could hardly type,
and those times were my favorite.
I'm thinking about putting one of them on my wall, but it makes me sad to think I couldn't tell him about it.

I never did tell you what I do in the mornings, about the things I hate the most, or about all my tiny ticks.
If I wasn't so ill, I might have remembered to message you more -
then again, I figured we had the rest of our lives for our friendship.
That phrase feels sickeningly familiar in my mouth.
Colorado is where my friends go to die, it seems.

"How's your lade?"
"You are the dotiest together."
"You two are my sunshines."
"Your love gives me hope in the world."

Late nights filled with panic and unease, the kind only love can instill in you,
and calm messages back from him that told me to keep doing what I'm doing -
she's going to be alright.
And I'm trying to believe that, Tom, I'm trying to believe that with all my heart
but you're six feet under from the same thing that threatens to take my beloved from me
so I'm not sure how to believe you now.
You don't know what I would give to hear from you tonight,
to hear, "she's going to be alright, you're doing all the right things"
to hear, "I'm going to be alright, you're doing all the right things."
I told you I would fight for you with all I have, but I knew what I have isn't a lot right now.
I couldn't do much for you.
I hope with all my might it's enough for her.
(and finally, since the night I was told they pulled the plug, I can cry.)

I didn't get to say goodbye. two weeks before you took yourself from me,
I sent you "goodnight" and "I miss you" and "sleep good" and "we'll talk soon"
…I suppose all but the last is close enough.
(I'll probably always carry a pocket of regret that six days before that,
I never received a notification to your reply.)

you once wrote to me about love and small fonts
and I will never forget the first time i read it and my heart stopped
because you Knew, you understood when I have never even told you.
I'm chasing so many tails of uncertainty now, my dear,
but I will try to remember I can find that I am Loved.

i used to be sad
i used to be sad
all of the time, gnawing at my nails
and bleeding burden in my mouth
as i daydreamed disasters, always
straying from words like "love."
but you taught me that happiness
is not anything that you ask for

when you see happiness,
you seize every crevice and angle and
corner of it, it is yours -
but only if you do not ask for it

you taught me that
there's too many creeps of sunlight
hiding between raindrops
as they fall,
too many open oceans offering
anchors on their beds to pull
us down under,
too many "not enoughs" and
not enough of anything anymore
because everyone is always
asking

you taught me that
if i want to glide along railroads,
i musn't turn into a bullying engine
that shouts and kicks and pushes,
but i must turn into the girl
who knows exactly what
freedom sounds like

and you taught me all of this,
you taught me
everything about love,
without saying a
single
word

Woke with the sting of regret, it’s been too long since I fell,
I missed the rush of fresh air, I missed the taste of the smell,
I was in love with the tightrope, the stained glass of her eyes,
Bowed by the weight of surrender, I settled for compromise,
Watching those false idols dance, turning wolves into sheep,
As we played coy with the monsters that sang us to sleep,
I had a million places to go, and so much I’d hoped to say,
But I wasted another tomorrow thinking about yesterday,
And those sticky situations where we all came unglued,
While I daydreamed a sky that wouldn’t mirror my mood,
A slow dance with routine, and every face looks the same,
I was choking to death on the stale taste of my name,
So I started sanding sharp edges, hoping that I might fit in,
I spent a year writing my ending, so I could finally begin,
Dusting off open road acrobatics, I twisted south by the sea,
Searching for the rotting remains of who I thought I should be,
But it was just another battle that I lost to the war,
The same wrecking ball feet with new roads to explore,
Nothing quite felt right, my fingertips became springs,
I’d lost the girl to save the world, and other foolish things,
It was my first last-ditch effort, my best second guess,
I painted myself into a corner of the picture of success,
Fifteen-hundred miles, and still felt so far out of reach,
Until late one night my phone rang as I walked along the beach,
I told my story to the old man as he listened patiently,
When I finished, he calmly asked me to turn and face the sea,
He said, “The ocean is the journey, the sum of all you gave,
Do not lose perspective; this is but a single wave.”
I drove home that night and slept for the first time in half a week,
And when I awoke, the path before me didn’t feel quite so bleak,
I realized there’s no shame in letting someone catch us if we fall,
And that being lost is different than being nowhere at all,
I learned that each story is a lesson, not merely a scar,
And that all we have left is not the same as everything we are.

That's my private name for her...Grey Eyes. And they are very, very grey, a lake shrouded in mist. A strange thing, to be in love with a feeling. To be enamored of arrivals, departures, mitigations. Odd also, when someone leads you to an understanding of yourself...or at least, a part of yourself. It is satisfying for me to let futures go. In some strange way, it's fulfilling and sad, for someone to reach out a hand to me across the dark waters. To see a possibility, very much yearned for, and to deprive myself of it. I was given an offer today that I had thought about often, daydreamed and hungered for. Ultimately I declined, my reasons being vague at the time, though my explanation was valid (somewhat). "I get uncomfortable when I can't pack up everything and leave in a day, and I wouldn't want to do that to you". I didn't think about whether I may have hurt her by saying that, though it wouldn't have changed my answer. Something deep inside whispered of danger and confinement should I have taken that road, great sorrows unimagined. Somehow it was deeply moving to be able to stare down my childish craving, and turn away, to be able to recognize that this path was not for me. People like me, people with a history but no story, don't move in with a woman that they have feelings for and end up happy. I've walked that way before, though the stakes were much lower and I much younger. One more test passed. I never wanted to admit this about myself, but now I suppose I can accept it without shame, without anger or judgement. I sometimes enjoy killing my dreams. Rather, killing things about myself that have no purpose but to cause distraction and delay, ideas and hopes that lead sideways rather than forward. Of all the skills taught to me by my Father, this has been the most valuable.