Darkness swirls in blackened night
That might have left me without light
Yet with me are fireflies
That gift sight for my eyes

Like a waltz they sway my lovely vision enhancers
Not to mention they are amazing dancers

i see drops of water tracing the lines of your hair--
it's like you're crying but you're happy and i swear
even a painter couldn't muster the awe to bear
the sight of you under showering rain

i see nightlights peeking behind your silhouette
and the tones of your flustered blush try not to separate
themselves from the warm comely palette
of the shot of our figures in loving embrace

i see a blanket folded into your solemn sleeping shape
with curves smiling back; in a way, i wouldn't escape
had you had me landlocked within your pretty landscapes...


hug me tight
so that i might see
just how pretty you can be
under the soft glow of a burning moment

I cannot fully explain to you
How perplexing it is
To be a 22 year old adult
But to still have the fear
Usually reserved for a young child
The fear of the dark
And not in a way that one is afraid of death
Or lions or tigers or bears
Oh my, my fear is much more irrational
You see I find I have bravery in real things
I’ve rock climbed mountains
Ridden roller coaters
Held a poisonous snake by the tale
You get why that’s braver right?
But what makes the hair on the back of my neck stand
What makes my skin pucker into tiny little bumps
Are monsters born of my own imagination
You see my imagination is wicked
And I use that word both ways
In the slang sense that it is awesome and powerful
And in the literal sense that is it evil
That when I imagine a monster
I give it ten hands with 20 fingers each ending with teeth
And eyes so black they sink into the monsters head
Making them look like empty sockets
So deep, they touch his brain
I am forever afraid
I’ll be honest with you
I sleep with all the lights on
And my closet doors wide open
So I could see exactly what is going on in there
I years ago threw out my bed skirt
Convinced they cloaked crooked
Teeth crawling critters capable of decapitation
And were all considerable stronger than myself
As you can imagine I have a lot of nightlights
Mobile ones I use to walk to the bathroom with in the middle of the night
I have to buy so many batteries
The clerk at Walmart can only reasonably assume
I have deviant private life
Because grown *** adults shouldn’t be that scared of the dark
Because at some point during or after childhood
I won’t assume it happens at the same time for everybody
Your imagination takes a backseat to logic
And you understand that monsters aren’t real
But death is and maybe that’s a better fear to have
That didn’t happen with me though and I think most artists
If they were to be completely honest with you would tell you
It didn’t happen to them either they missed a step
In the development milestone department
Though I think they would tell you too like I’m about to tell you now
The fear is worth it there hasn’t been a single monster
I’ve imagined that hasn’t had an equal
Beautiful thought and I can see them better with all the lights on.

It's 4am but you're not sleeping.
Your friends went out, but you stayed in.. Again.
The lights are off, but it feels much darker.
Your mind is screaming you're a coward.

In the darkest hours of the night,
I think of you.

I think of your scent being a blues song,
Playing a lone trumpet
Drifting over my face.

It’s a funny thing,
What the night does to us,
Especially if you aren’t asleep.

But I have dreamed of you,
Eyes looking into your eyes,
You so close to me you breath in my exhale.

In the darkest hours of the night,
I think of you.

I think of your warmth,
Spreading over me like strawberry jam.
Sticky, sweet, and always easy to spread.

The inhibitions of the daylight,
Are lost within the dark.
Stuck in their bedroom with their nightlights.

I have lost all of my layers,
Now here,
Just a skeleton of myself.

In the darkest hours of the night,
I think of you.

I think of your shoulders,
Hard as Atlas,
But soft as the curves in your body.

There is no way I can’t think of you,
You are the night.

the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin

I wonder how bright my tears shimmered
Refracting your flickering light,
I wonder what thoughts had filtered,
Through your changing mind that night.
Your smile builds me upright,
Until it quivers and I fall
To pieces under nightlights
Until morning sooths and calms.
But nothing feels quite as right
As crying in your arms,
While laughing at our fears
Pretending nothings wrong,
Pretending that you would stay forever,
Until the day you’ve gone.
Every night without your light
Just seems to dark and long.

Everything is pitch black
Birds have flown away
When the sun goes down at the end of the day.

The nightlights are turned on
In beds children lay
When the sun goes down at the end of the day

The world has grown silent
The trees do not sway
When the sun goes down at the end of the day

Everyone is tired
The sky turns to grey
When the sun goes down at the end of the day.

The darkness is endless
And try as we may
There's no way to bring back the lightness of day.

All people are putting
Desires at bay
There's no more to want at the end of the day.

I got a pair of Starburys when I was ten.
Didn't want them,
I actually wanted some Heelys instead.
Wanted to be like my friends
and trip over pebbles
and get tucked into bed with band-aids.
My mom told me to stop focusing on their plates and look at mine.

I had a fork, spoon, and knives,
grown man portions: eyes the size of my stomach.
She was right --
I never liked training wheels, or cheat codes,
or elbow pads or nightlights.
Grown men aren't scared to fall,
so why am I?
Why am I twenty years old shopping on the Heelys website?

Breathe.
Breathe deep,
and in between
those breaths
bring back
banished beliefs
buried beneath
beyond
broken bonds
and
burnt bliss.

Embers.
Embers everywhere
of emotions
expecting
Elysium’s
elusive embrace.

Roses.
Roses scattering
restlessly;
rarely receiving
reprieve;
reminiscing;
ruing
reproachful ravens
resting
rigidly;
rabidly reaping,
rending
rotten remains,
resenting rainfall
refusing remorse.

Nostalgia.
Nostalgia underneath
neon nightlights;
noticing
nubs,
noises,
nuances;
neither neglecting
nameless
nonbelievers,
nor nurturing
narrow-sighted
naiveté.

Asleep.
Asleep amidst
fleeting azaleas
acknowledging
an abandon
amplifying
already
almighty
affection;
almost
altering
an­cient,
ardent,
adamant
air
as an
ageless art.

Loss.
Loss overpowering;
lost love,
lingering longing,
lasting laments.
Lachrymose lovers
left layers
of a
limited life
within
long-forgotten lore;
lest labeled
Loveless;
left
little
longer
living.

Yearning.
Yearning for
the warmth
of home.
Yesterday,
You
were
yelling
‘YES’
at the top
of your lungs,
and
it
was
enough.
Yet
Yggdrasil
yielded
yew
for years
and years;
young,
yellow yeggs
yanked asunder
Yin
from Yang
into the
ever yonder.

Night-time.
Night-time symphonies
nullify
nothingness;
nourishing
Nyx Nightmother’s
need
of newfound
night-thinkers;
napping
nonchalantly
now,
near,
and nevermore.

~**D.C.

Tonight Ill lie awake waiting for the reprieve of sleep that will never come. My eyes will bore holes in the night sky for stars. Like a moth eaten blanket that covered up the outside light. My heart will sink to the center of the earth like stones and heavy metals. Arms crossed hugging myself so tight. Thoughts twist and curl through my mind like the dark waters in the sound. I’m sitting upon the breakwall that I’ve built, held steady by the mortar of my past life. Prior planning leads to stable landings.

The water leaked into the cracks that you made. I sandbagged but it meant nothing. It was like dutch fingers in cracking dams. Contents pouring out to water Holland’s tulips.

I held steady so long but recent lapses in judgement left me open and waiting.

This time, like the last, I read the weather report wrong. Sunny days relapse into clouds and rain. My stray into meteorology took me down dark streets at night passing empty parks with vacant swings and lonely slides. Houses filled with slumbering occupants. Tired streetlights lighting up void roadways like ancient nightlights. Somehow I managed to find my way home. Back to where I’ve always been. Stagnant between the surf and the cliff face, I sink to swim

i've spent hours cramped over thesaurus pages and days ignoring warnings to write about the people who make me feel the things i am supposed to feel

i've spent sentences and words and enough knowledge to fill volumes like a life-time credit debt, pouring sentiments and metaphors over people who won't even bother to read how i venerate their actions, their touch, their reactions

how i analyze each detail like ive got a four year degree and student loans to last me until im ninety in How to Make Yourself Sick With Overthinking

i've spent so much time deflecting like a broken pinball machine in the back of an old restaurant, telling anyone who listens that people make me feel human, give me emotions, make me feel real

i've never spent enough time away from instant gratification, reaction, attention, to know who i am without the people that fill gaps in my lungs and ribs, who stitch me up and send me into a field of disconcerted intentions and bad messes

i can't wite much about who i am, how i react, my actions, my touch, my reactions. my soul is based off of the fragments of other souls that have touched me.

and still, i want the words and syllables and poetry.
i want the actions and touches and reactions
i want to mean something to the people that mean so much to me
i want someone to raise me to this compulsory apotheosis
it's impossible i am the only one with emotions bursting inside of them like nightlights and meteor showers

i suppose
i haven't spent enough time thinking how
there is a vain narcissism that encompasses a person who, without people, would not be a person at all.

You are a starchild, born from
the heavenly bodies and all
their celestial love affairs; You
twinkled among the stars and
owned the universe with them,
and yet you came down to
Earth and instead took over
my heart. And you say you
don't remember any of that as
we lay under the planets, but
when I look into your eyes I
see a galaxy. You shine with
a supernatural sort of radiance
that I can't believe to be earthly
and I am awful at science but
when you speak to me, astronomy
makes sense. The universe makes
sense. And you say that, just as
birds and clouds and humans
die, stars eventually die out too.
Our time is short but, darling, we
are infinite. We've become our own
universe. We threw away our mortal
selves when we realized this and
embraced this fleeting moment we
have together; stories never die and
neither will ours. And you say you
want to take me to your place,
among the asteroids and nightlights.
Yesterday I would have said, "No,
I'm afraid of the dark" but mapping
the unknowns of outer space with you,
surely we will become constellations.
And besides, I already am in heaven;
after all, that is what love is, isn't it?

Blanketed in darkness,
Mesmerized by natures nightlights
Finding solace in the shadows of the moon.
     Embracing her beauty,
     Comforted by her tranquility
     Envious of her courage

I feel the tug of the connection,
     P u l l i n g... P u l l i n g...
Silently grasping
Constantly at war
               with the rise of the sun.
               with the conflicting thoughts of flight

Lost in the moon's beauty,
Thoughts and feels engulf me
          Seeking answers
          Seeing peace
Whispers of worries quietly spoken
Solitude reveals truths

Do you look up at the same sky
                  and see the same moon?
She shines brightly to remind you,
      where the light can be,
Guidance, serenity, silent comfort.
Promoting freedom and peace
          Reborn each night.

Lover of the moon,
     Mysterious and bright,
            Holder of secrets and wishes
                   Under its light,
                            we love,
                            we dance,
                            we forget,
                            we remember,
                            we meet.

i feel the density
the scarcity
of being me
not one to wait around
but suddenly this girl's a tree

of void
hey now let's contemplate
half empty?
no, half full today
congested is my current state
the chips fall
anywhere they may

i want to whisper
and have nothing coming
from the place of  (sigh)
I want a glimpse of what its like
to have the thought erase
and ( sigh)

I am not asking
to be mute, though you may
entertain the thought
be nice to simply hear
not what I'm thinking
more like what you've got.

i feel the silence
hear the sound  
inside my head it's humming
not short of pleasant but
much better to accompany
your strumming.

a conversation taking
place
an understanding in my soul
an instrument of perfect grace
i'll hand it to you
make me whole

forgive my talking  
nightlights glimmer
something i can't shake
my longing dear
is just to simmer
down to give and take

I love the feeling
when you're moved
about my bellyache
your comfort's soothing
teabag something
makes my honey quake

not knowing how or when
or why or is just the way it sometimes goes
to trust an answer
never comes
but known to God
whose loving shows..

steam from the coffee ***
brings more than this
it's coffee's kiss
beans roast by foreign hands
in foreign lands
brought me to this...
XO

its incredible how everyone views stars diffently
some who see the stars as the nightlights when the sun goes out
some who wish on the stars
some who dream about being that high like stars
some who hope to be stars someday
some who think they can count the stars
some who want to shut out the world and cry out against the stars
some who want to think that the stars are
pieces of heaven shinin' through in a world so cold and somber
those who know that theres more to our world past the stars
some who love to identify and track the stars
some who wish they can know where the stars came from to give praise to such wonderful creation
some who know where the stars and everything under it came from
some who have to give up on everything in their lives and are forced
to wallow about in the streets and give the stars names
some who are too busy to think about stars
some whove never really looked up from whats in front of them
but me
ill love them because theyll always be there for me
unlike these human beings

The city is slick with neons winking
at unwary pedestrians
inviting wallets into opening up
credit cards and false dreams
of luxury. Few care about seduction.

The rain drops gently
scattering sparkles
that nobody cares about. None.

at 5pm
the only interesting pathway is
home. All.

Day pulls its shutters close
and the nightlights
imitate day.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

In this world you've tried
kept M'onsters you still hide
Memories stuffed in closets tight
out still oozes M'onsters' slime
turning the night to wasted rind
and running circles in looped time

'We're all so very tired', they say
but with lights on they lay
'cuz in the dark is when you memories play
and nightlights 'on't work to keep'em at bay
so with bright lights they lay
hoping your M'onsters stay away

M'onsters 'll stay as long as they choose
but I've got a lock to keep the door closed
a touch in a latch and a demeanor so soothed
that no M'onster can squeam its' way through
So dim the lights and let my shining love prove
and consider those M'onsters properly shoo'ed

Red Light shining bright through the window in an edgy ally, where you can smell the sin and witness
lustfilled eyes of corrupt and narrow minded men.
Watch how they pick their flesh, a desperate attempt at relief of the madness lying within. A brief escape from a screaming consciousness's plea for help.
Young girls ostracized,productized, capitalized sitting in symbolized shelves. Behaviour manipulated to seamlessly service the brainwashed consumer's shallow needs. Cattle literally abusing human innocence in a legalised system.
A caged bird, where tears can only fly freely behind void eyes.
Desperate to the point they would sniff the coke from the dollar bill in search for small remnants of solace. Ironically it's the thought behind that dollar bill that put her there in the first place. Ironically it's that same dollar bill that might bring an oppertunity to escape.
Might leave a small opening in the cage. Emphasis on might.

A bedroom, where the nightlight shines darkgrey
A small boy sitting, fetus position, under his older sister's worn out desk
Never before have you met someone so young
weighing the options, positives and negatives
about life and death
testing, poking the knife he has in his chest
nobody has taught him anything about coping
good thing he knows everything about math instead
broken, his sister pinned down in father's bed
last time he accidently walked in
he was nearly beaten to death
He grabs the knife and seperates his soul from his flesh.
Society labels him and million others 'A Tragedy'.

Delivering freedom on the spot, dropped from high altitudes
by B52 Stealth Bombers, Lockheed AC-130's, F16's and unmanned MQ-1 Predators.  The Democratic system crashes into farmers, families, children and other people waiting for the food drop today. The explosion burns everything away.
Their souls desperately in search for their bodies which now lie scattered in ash, they can't go back to the physicall plane. They are forced to break away from their 6 month old daughter who 'miraculously' survived that day. Democracy making way for western influence, orphans turn into kids who perceive their nightlights dark grey.
Soldiers spot a baby, in a bloodbath, sitting.
Militairy lights hover over the scene, the blood reflects back a bright red.
This part of the city turned into a Red Light District.
The epitome of irony was a spark of creativity in the mind of a mad architect.

The kid is swooped into a country whom mercilessly obliterated her parents. Little brothers and sisters send to their dusty graves with the President's consent. Sixteen years later she meets her fifth one, social workers don't know what to do with her. Another two years later she's institutionalised, filled to the brim with drugs satisfying the needs of pharmaceutical companies. Trapped in a straight jacket, between four white walls. Being used to purchase meds to keep the production going. The least the useless can do is a word invented by capitalism: consumerism.
So they shall consume, such a harsh forced fate. Everybody's mind would break.
For those who's sun shines grey, where salvation waits on the thin line of a sharpened blade. I'll tell you, suffer needlessly. The world thrives on you.

Flashing nightlights outside the window, taps and bangs to keep her remembering throughout the night what she had sown.
Crashes that struck to the beat of her tired blinking eyelids.
Ground that for a moment was hotter than the sun, the thought of it made her feel alone. No warm touch to comfort her cold skin.
This storm would never end, would it?

I don’t much know what she looks like.
I couldn’t tell you the color of her hair
Or the shape of her eyes
And if you put me in a crowd next to her I could spend years searching for her face
And never realize she was standing right next to me.
Because I don’t know who she was,
And her name is blank in my memory but
I know she had one because
What else would my father call her on those late nights my mom spent calling him,
Only for the 30 second condolences left by the voicemail recording,
No.
I don’t much know what she looks like,
But that doesn’t stop her from walking into my memory,
My mother’s memory,
All wide smiles and dark shadows and long fingers interlocked in his,
Interlocked in my childhood because
The other woman,
She doesn’t need a face to haunt me.
All she needed was four months and suddenly
She was lurking behind my closet door,
Under my bed,
The places in my head where the dark things hid,
She made a home behind my eyelids,
So that not even nightlights could protect me.
The other woman was a parasite,
And I watched as she wormed her way between them
Spreading sickness Redbull ***** could never seem to cure,
******* the love and then the life and then leaving them for dead.
Sometimes I hope that when she closes her eyes and lays down her head,
She can still taste it on her tongue,
The bitterness she created when she decided to become
The other woman.
She had hands like hammers and I never knew a home could be as fragile as china,
But watched as shards of porcelain fell at my feet,
Glowing red and blue.
Watched as my mother tried to pick up the pieces,
Her shaking hands always carrying more than she could hold.
Watched as my father, the artist,
Handed the paintbrush to the other woman,
Her masterpiece,
Our destruction.
Watched as the other woman became the only woman
Who could rip my heart out of my chest and still remain unknown.
Recently I met a girl in love.
Even with his wife and kids.
And I recognized the other woman in her smile, her laugh,
In her eyes which glowed happy.
Happiness I could never achieve because
I was the kid whose father stopped tucking her in
When he found a better pair of lips to kiss goodnight.
The tightness in my chest wouldn’t go away because
She told me I should try it.
But broken homes aren’t ice cream flavors.
Empty beds aren’t party drugs.
You don’t take a ruined life for a test drive and
I know now that other women exist,
But I could never hold a match to a family just to start a fire in my heart.
I don’t much know what she looks like,
But I know she’ll never look like me.

At night in the hamlet, a noise broke the silence. A quite small pixie named Stick
Was napping in the forest just round midnight or so, she fancied she heard
Her name being called thru the wood by some lover. She sat there by her snail shell hut like an intoxicated hobbit, then she crept on down to the dale, and spied
Wee little fireflies dancing in the air like nightlights flown by daring pilots with no particular place to go.

On nights such as this, lovely painted nightlights
My soft petaled sheets become
Course on my brittle ankles
The unorganized pile of miscellaneous god knows what
(Does he?)
Transforms, hallucinogens point and laugh
Becoming bits of deities to serve as an alarm clock on a plate
Ticking my black hairs to grey
The cold air suffocates my toes and
Fills my shell with images of
Once laid here with the changing eyes that kept me quiet.

Sometimes, I wake up and search for your nonexistent space.

She lies above me, wed to bed,
and startles when the doorbell tolls,
alights afloor, and softly treads
on dewy toes with heightened soles
to quickly close the bedroom light
that theretofore had from her panes
spread forth into the haze of night
that long had fallen on the lanes.

Stepping back, I raise my stare
to see, should any creature stir,
but in her window, nothing's there—
not a cat, and no, not her,
just books and papers on her sills
all outlined by the street lamp's glow,
which emanates and softly spills
upon her walls from here below.

I call to her with no reply
before I call again and go
back to the door again to try
the bell, but I already know
that she will not allow me in,
so I descend the steps at last
and walk to where I had just been—
my unilluminated past.

is this what they call fate
and can it ever change
is that what they all say
the opinions stay the same
that bar just keeps on raising
and i'm shriveling up like raisins
been like that since the beginning
but by the end i hope i'm grinning
cause birds gotta leave their nests right
so i'm gonna live my best life
or drop like a deer in headlights
paralyzed in my dreams and nightlights

Moonbeams are

Just dead skin

Glowing


Who we are 's

Just dead skin

Going



On and on and on again

To a place where the nightlights never end

And after all is said and dead


We're gone



It's funny how things that are odd

Remnant creepy and macabre

Are the things we dare call the face of God



Moonbeams are

Just dead skin

Gleaming


Who we are 's

Just dead skin

Screaming



Over and over and over again

Why won't the nightlights ever end?

And after all is said and dead


We're gone



It's funny how things that are odd

Deliciously ruined and macabre

Are the things we dare call the face of God