I will never regret loving you,
but I will always regret losing you.
I will not regret the countless letters,
but I will regret the memory of them.

The Unregrettable part about regrets,
is that at one point, the thing we now regret,
was the one thing we wanted most.



*11/14/2010

Grow up little firefly, you're running from a past that isn't even chasing you.
But if you insist on pretending that I don't exist I will continue my manner of work.
I'll make the landscape inescapable.
Zero exit signs, I'll keep you running circles till you collapse.
Your light won't shine within the shadow of my wings.
There will be no shelter from my storm, I am the eye, all seeing unflinching as you leer, glare, and sneer.
These words are the flames I breathe, your new knight is nothing but kindling, duller than his blade, slower than his speech,
I'd look down my nose at him but he'd get lost in the shade.
Is his love is too small, or is my conviction too great, whatever the issue is it's too late?
I have already begun, this song will ring until you see my sun.
So little firefly, understand this last stand, I'm only aiming at moving targets, so as long as you run I'll give chase.
You'll never be able to outrun my pace, so accept this end, drop to a knee and extend a hand.
Shake the hands of time and move on without forgetting what moved you to where you are.
Eternally unforgettable, unregrettable, unaware, and unknown.
Vastly veiled in a vision of lavender, magenta,and violet shown.
Eyes innocent yet ignorant, arrogant in false audacity.
With witless bliss and over ambitious affection fuel my tenacity.
I'm either up too late or too early, like a night owl catching the worm, but what's done is done.
These cannot be erased, replaced, banished, or be made to vanish.
So stand still little firefly and let me catch you, for only a moment to see your light up close.
After that I'll let you go, never to darken your little world again, trust me, a liar never lies about being a liar.

First came electric therapy, designed by men to **** her memory. The currents coursed through her veins. They tried to burn her true love from her brain. Synapses flared and flamed singeing away nearly everything she dared to feel almost nothing was left but a name, an impression. Session after session sparks cut through her skull and tore through her mind.

All she had to do to escape was to lie, and say she no longer felt that way. However, in her slurred and slow mental state all that she could do was whisper her lovers name. Iris sweet Iris the flower of her love, whose touch sent shivers swimming through her body. Iris the unforgettable, desirable, and unregrettable; even in the hours of her darkest pain she would never wish to forget that wonderful name. A name attached to such pleasurable memories. Iris whose lips tasted like strawberries and mouth would moan musically with her satisfaction. Touching each other under the starlit sky, bare breast against bare breast, licking each other from back to thigh until their passions exploded and they came together in exhaustion. No matter how much their love cost them, the jobs it lost them, the family they had to leave behind, it was all worth it. The love they had was special. Men would glance and stare; Sick with desire and envy, but they didn’t care.  
The Doctors tried to destroy their love but failed, because buried deep within the burnt flesh, on some deep genetic level the feelings still remained. Night after night she quietly sobbed Iris’s name. Her vision and memories were faded and degraded by the shocks administered. Sometimes after the doctors left and she was by herself, she would search her mind trying to find her own name. Corner to corner each crevice and crack, each hidden corridor in her mind was faded, and the only name she could find was Iris’s. Other evenings when no one was watching the orderlies would sneak into her room to tease and taunt her. They would scar her body with their fevered kisses, violating her womanhood with their vile flesh protruding and extending into her. Her eyes would close. Her body would tense, and her mind would vacate her skull, while holding on to only one thing, Iris.

When the merciless administering of electrical current to her brain failed to achieve any notable degree of success, the butcher came. They called him Doctor Slade, A specialist. They brought her to his table in a white room that was sterile and scentless. Her body was strapped to a cold metal table and she was sedated. Slade sliced through the skin on her skull, cracked the bone and opened her up, exposing her mind to the all those in attendance. Then when he was finished, he walked away a proud master mutilator. The nurse, whose white uniform was now splattered and sprayed with blood and bits of brain matter, hauled her back to her room.  

In her room she sat dripping drool from her swollen lips. Her vacant eyes stared out at the blank wall registering nothing at all. The bandages on her skull concealed small patches of blonde hair matted with clots of blood. Her drawers reeked of ***** matter because she had soiled herself. Nothing remained except a shell.

Somewhere far away Iris screamed the forgotten name. In her dreams she cradled her lover’s fragile frame, but never saw or touched her lovers face. Iris scribed their love in journal after journal, sketching out in deep determined details their five years together. She wrote of each high and low from the first time they met in the College courtyard till they day they were separated permanently.

Years passed. Iris’s body weakened from despair and began to waste away. Her flesh sagged from her bones bunching into wrinkles with brown speckles and spots parading all over her skin. Memories got lost in the fog of her mind until one day she could no longer recall her lover’s name. Shortly thereafter Iris faded away as well. Her body remained unsoiled by shame, for their love had been a thing of poetry, epic, and beyond belief, a guard against the unjustified onslaught of social madness, a sweet relief no matter how brief.

Sadness is the color of understanding
empathy bores an endless path
at first piercing and ideal, like a flaming arrow
fired into a gelatinous body, it slows
over years and the path before it
twists around realism
a snake wrapped around the heart
in a Gordian Knot, swallowing its own tail
acceptance, defeat, purity
the ideals become gritty
stained with a lens of knowledge
that ultimate, itself, is too perfect to be a trait
grounded in something obtainable, soulless ice reflects
the neglectful capabilities behind the intellect, acknowledging
that meta-metamorphosis that no one is so great
idols are a poisonous cure to this toxic fantasy
the new religious ****** crisis, celebrity in flesh
appreciation, fame, ingratiation, talent and skill
rising above means and station, status and still,
flourishing compassion, a flower bloom on fire
extinguished before it causes trouble, curling lips
biting, the ice manifested on the road oft traveled to mayhem kills
mischief belays this idea, good natured, good intentions
if only, shortcuts through the thicket, frustrations
manipulations, tollbooths rise upon this road,
one a hike by barefoot, through thorn, bramble and gravel
the other all nice blacktop, long and wide, hot and fresh asphalt
progress seems faster, every booth demands more and every exit passed
is farther from the last
while the work it takes to travel the other road, is all the same distance
in all the same time, just harder, what is done to cross a creek leaves a sense
of fulfilled accomplishment
where what is done to get down to the street lives in the past tense
as everything is taken by the inch and replaced with resentment
while everything gained by the mile is unforgettable, unregrettable
to expire on the road is to give everything to a thief within, becoming too tired
to live in these woods, these words, this world is to see truth and find contentment.

Mine eyes have beheld a wanderer, whose ragged breath had left
beneath a beating star, hotter than all the blood behind their heart
and they were haggard, lost in the latter years of a bitter and angry life
that they often contemplated the benefits of living against themself,
for those that wanted them around, their blistered and raw feet
torn to shreds from many miles stripped of skin inch by inch on the ground
learned lessons in lamentation, far too hard headed to relent their suffering
in silence, even wailing to the world, to deaf ears and numb touch
they let birds fly away with beaks full of their flesh, fresh off their back
for that was repentance in their mind, to feed the bugs that crawled up
asking for a meal, in this dire, final hour, let the roadkill return a penance
a buffet for the hungry, this was not too much, theirs was a shared road
they were the only ones who cared, their reasoning was such,
for a helping hand so often had bitten hunks out of this skeleton
now eroding on the road, whose tears were little more than glistening salt
in the sand, dry as its motivations, to deny itself while continuing in misery
a path it knew would end in complete isolation,
a blink and these eyes withdrew the vision, shuffling feet away
the promise of change is always before, and empty until fulfilled
as the spires of a lonely city called Alienation, dare the mouth to say
"I will not follow the footsteps of my future-self, I will change today."

The thing of pathology and roads,
there is a demon named ******,
who exists to lead us astray
ideally, in your world of empathy  
who can resist a stray?

They spin in circles freely without constraint.
Veracious or deluding in exuberance and despair?
Perchance a bit of both?
An ethereal reflective narrative.
Intangible substance.
Internalizing sensitivities.
Processing encounters.
Dramatic imaginings that breed creativity.
Fierce dejection feeds anxiety.
Exultant highs that reach the edge of space.
Traumatic rage to cauterize the soul.
A rollercoaster of words heard within.
Sensitivity.
And unregrettable struggle.
A prized element of this identity.