Without warning
being with you
was like writing
with my left hand
making me think
we were
no longer
good together
and you agreed
and you have
always agreed
and you have always
said that you still love me
like I am your favorite book
but you don’t want
to have to
read me
every day
you’d rather
open me up
to look
at the dedication
then put me away
on the shelf
where I sit
next to
the geography books
of all the foreign girls
you have dated
you once
said in a hushed tone
to me
that there was
a language barrier
getting in the way
but opening them up
felt so good
because the
hills of their bellies and thighs
were not too
big
the rivers were
wet
and they liked to
explore your topography too
for hours and hours
in ways
my left hand
could not do
and so I am
your favorite book
that you remember
scenes from
questions from
with a smile
we didn’t work
and you agreed
and you laughed
as you said
we went through a lot
tell me what made it easy
to let me walk away
and stop being your home
but a book on your shelf
was it
the way my right hand
stopped working
and acted
like it was my left
was it that

Narrow roads
Dishevelled hopes
Blank tomorrow's
Is this what lies ahead?
Searching for insolation
But cold shivers surround as the palm pushes me out
What did I do to deserve isolation of the hardest yet
The unrest of another day passing
Asking the question like
Is this life my best bet?
I've endured this devastation for too long
And strike after strike, I've resurfaced again
Tired
Mind completely unsound
Chained, pulled around and round
Unwilled and weak
But I still seek that light
And that hand to dust me off

Begging sometimes seems pointless,
For, what am I here for?
More frustration? More anger? More morbid depression and borderline insanity?
I no longer wonder what possibly could be wrong with me.
There's no specific thing, it's me.
Why are embraces cold and smiles hard?
Why constantly have up my guard?
Why give in to my darkness when I've been rabid for the light since small.
I knew that things would get here, no, I lie.
My Bible's shelfed and dusty
But I know what it says
About children
Who lie.

The wrongs we have shelfed
Growing retrogressively
Strayed far, home's long lost

If I were to write a letter to love I’ll tell you what I’d say;
I’d first tell her to go to hell for making me feel this way.

For raising me upon her shoulders
         just to let me fall.
For telling me what I’d dreamt of hearing
         but not meaning it at all.

I’d tell her just to leave me be
        don’t follow me around.
Don’t shine your glitter light my way
        when I wish not to be found.

Don’t promise me you’ll hold my hand
         or support my dreams.
When all the while we both know
         that suddenly you’ll leave.

If I were to write a letter to love I’d have a lot of words to share.
        Words of wisdom and advice
but i’m sure it wouldn’t care.

I’m sure she has her own grand plans;
        a timeless tale for herself.
I just wish she wouldn’t be so secretive and shelfed.

Brazen molten filigree sorries
Shelfed themselves on the edge of a shore made
of stickers and shapely woman.

Before I begin my crayon scrawlings,
I have a question.
A smart one that knows to gnaw on the back of my head...

"How do we know when we're alive?
And how do we know when we're dead?"