I chase the passionless feelings
full of delirious thoughts
and hopings
of a better anything something everything
to oil down my hinges
as my bones squeak
like rusty doors
held open too long,
to color me in lights
reading the scars I've learned to hide
beneath a smile
and fluttering eyes.

I run in circles loving and lusting
for a condition
wanting under all conditions,
seeing the falter of my thoughts
run
away from my grasp
and hold on
to nothing worth loving
and living lies
so grandeur,
envious when they feel no envy.

Not really sure what's come over me,
as my shadows wish to detach
and I stand there
waiting
for them to come haunt me--

They never do.

words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest

with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost

and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight

first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.

til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.

first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.

then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
                    life's little deaths

i pick shadow and also the gallow be it shallow,
i, though serene meander in about
unabsolute things, fears and dreams ring out and
fade quietly by, and because of unseen things, shrill
blades ring true, their marks bringing about
unending screams in the dark, a thousand or
so plucks on an ever blood soaked harp.
play is a silly thing so easily given up by those
the best at it. for pleasure to me, seems critical
indeed, like petting a steed before a march or breed.
pain it seems exists in me and though i know
more than a common thief, it surges in me constantly
causing uprisings and uncontrolled jitterings and workings
silent hopings of red streams plague my dreams but
i still sing and hope to see crimson showerings
and lovely ruy coverings up of flowery things needed
by me to smile methodically as you look at me
and see a seed planted by me on your inner
most workings and machinery, ive the passwords
needed indeed for erasing your quelchings and delvings
deep. im still like a tree ready to be, to end or start thee.