After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.

traffic backup,
    roadwork signs.
drive down road,
    little houses
treed yards.
    brown leaves,
first sign of fall.
    kids about to go back to
school\parents
    return to work. rolling
on the seconds go,
    ticking by faster
each year so it
    seems.

cars piled up,
     to slow, won't go.
tiny dancers in the
     wind blow on to car
windows,
     another sign of coming
Harvest Season.
     people resist the clear
trademarks
     enjoying the fall,
but resenting the
     winter.

I can't understand
     New England birds,
you're housed in
     cocoons like caterpillars
that guard against the
     elements,
not freezer coldness
     that animals call home.
I'm not sure the memo
     reached you,
but this isn't the
     South.

trees like snakes,
     shed their
rainbow skins, as
    "Old Man Winter"
kicks in. the sound of
      leaves crunching, cold
on the floor under foot.
     Autumn's death has
no memorial,
     birds flying South
a eulogy.

What can speed like a dart
to the bulls eye but
never win the point
or stop so short
but still be over the line
when it comes out at night but
is still seen in the brightest
of lights headed for the potential
end of the earth but the show is
about to be preformed and
to the buck with a bassinet
at the tip of its antlers
I know for sure you will
set it down
softly

Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
It's the end of the roadwork.
Your timepiece has come,
And it's a swatch.
Notch one more crotch on your bedposter -
That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight
That I have to pass every day on my work to drive.
Five days an hour, eight weeks a day
Hollywood, you make it so!
You make so,
And you make it so easy.

But no more.
I'll not have it.
I'll not have your scientists of magic.
I'll not have your tragic matches
Acting as hatched from practiced scratch,
Far detached from my actual batch.
I'll not latch.

Holly, I enjoy woodburning,
And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into
Buying wood in sizes I don't need.
"It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!"
Well, so can the forest, Holly.
So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits.
All for free, all for me,
All without fashion, death, or ****
(Unless I choose to use them).

Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher.
You should be teaching math,
But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap
That you sell your contributions
As though they were miracle cures for a dying language.
BUT.
You're in a rut.
You don't know it
(Most 70-year-old virgins don't),
But you are.
Go on, get ******.
You believe in formulas.
Hollywood, this movie
(Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading),
This movie would never make it in your classroom.
It has no meter,
Just a hint of rhyme,
And very few explosions sixty minutes in.
If I can't mumble it to a children's tune,
I get neither "A" nor award.

Roadwork...PoThOlEs
Riverside...TORnadOs
Beachfront...HuRRiCaNEs
­Stringspools...SPUN!!!!!!!

Running is essential to being a fighter.
You will never be able to stand your ground,
if you don't spend hours running as fast as you can.
Ironic isn't it.

Every day. Early in the morning when everyone is asleep.
Wake up. get dressed. 3 miles, 21 minutes or less.
It's raining? *****. Its sleeting? Get over it. You're exhausted? too **** bad.

Its those moments when you don't want to run.
The times when you want to say **** it,
that's where you learn to stand your ground.
Ironic that it takes more ******* running to get there.

there is a night
with the moon hung so low
it courses itself over my outstretched palms
and i lay in the middle of the street
with the gravel digging into my skin and
im repeating to a boy whos not listening to me
this doesn't make any sense and i try
my hardest to keep my fists clenched around
the surface of the moon but it falls through
my finger tips like sand he lies next to me
and tells me that maybe i am just hard to
love.

there is a morning
where i stumble down steps and into a bed
i pull blankets over my shoulders and i don't
cringe when you touch my stomach i used
to map out all of the bad parts on me like
a highway but all of my lines are blurred and
i feel less like roadwork and more like wandering
hands there is a version of you that i like most
it is right after we kiss and i pull away and
look right at you and i used to think that being
loved at all was the right thing to waste my time on
with car crash endings and angry words at least
it was love at least it was something now

there is the middle of the day
and all i am is that moment after i pull away
that split second where i feel so naive
for thinking i had any idea what love was before
i met you. that i could have ever let anyone convince me
the way they hurt me was a product of what my
heart could handle. that any love
besides this love was worth any of my time.
there is before and after,
night behind us and morning ahead of us and we
always just move forward.

I love the way she grins lopsided at me.
The way her uneven grin looks is so appealing.
Her mouth moves up and down like roadwork
Her eyes twinkle at me, one green and one brown.
Her hair is parted to one side, and move to the other as if to say yes.
Her kindness is like mercy to mankind.
Her hands hold mine, and I feel like I’m a man in paradise.
I’m the luckiest man alive.
She stands up and I see her in all her beauty.
You could not name this beauty
I just have to be in awe of it.
Mystique walks with every step of her intentions.
Suddenly she opens her mouth to say
You should really decide between the tacos and the pizza honey I’m hungry.
©

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.