It was Life that was the stowaway
All those years ago when Death had found her,
So young, fragile and beautiful.
Only He wasn't Death back then,
No, He only became Death when His crime was found out.
He had let the abberation live,
and so He was tasked to correct His failure,
And end Her.
He learned with time there was no penalty for patience.
His punishment turned to collection,
Collecting back the pieces
Of Life untill He had Her whole again.
With every piece two more would be created
But He had time.
He watched Her flourish,
Watched Her gain sentience
Watched Her debate Good and Evil
Laughed at the irony
Of something breaking existance
Debating it's own morality.
Watched Her tear apart the Universe
And put It back together getting everything
Mostly right and still so wrong.
He waited till the last little piece of Her
Finally let go
Stealing up the last little heat in the Universe.
Finally complete,
He took Her newly formed hand,
not unlike so long ago,
And led Her into a new Universe
For another like Him to find.

It's weird to me,
To miss something
that Never Was,
But I do.

I miss an us,
that Never Was
with a you
that Never Was.

I sank my soul into
A Never Was
And I miss
That Never Was.

Two people being...
Its diving deep into
an Always There.
And I dove deep into
A Never Was.

As cold, as empty as
That Never Was...
I still miss
That Never Was.

Come,
let me coil snakelike
round your mousy faced complexion,
spinning till
I squeeze the life back in to you.
You'll be wrapped tight in me,
forget where I end, and
I'll swallow you whole into us.

Of course its a game,
there is even turn order,
call and response-
colored spots with their own drawn cards.
If I draw blue I cry...
and if you draw red, we don't speak for days.
That's what the rules say.

Whose turn is it now?
The piece doesn't count till you lift your finger,
never mind that you have shown the ghost of intention.
We can just pretend you never found that hole in me.
Let the top hat circle round the board chased by the thimble,
at least till one of us can't lift the dice.

Count the cards,
he has played an Ace, and I have two Kings,
call or raise? Are we equal yet? One turn to win...
Who wears the pants today. One game to tell.
Never mind that neither will win.
Snake eyes exactly and I make the couch set with blankets-
tonight we lose again.

I want mindless violence,
since I can't punch my problems
like humanity used to.

I have telephone calls and
and red tape to cut
just to find out that my problems
have paid the solution
to go vacation on an island
or
they would punch him to death
in the way that I'm not allowed.

I have been told that civilized
takes the animals out of the jungle.
It puts them in big buildings
and it gives them better suits.

I am nothing more than a wolf without sheep's clothing.
Too bad. I would never mug the sheep.

Does the place all the solutions went
have room for just one more,
or will I enter the limestone pit
full of what should have been.

Its strange to think
that sheep dogs, those that keep sheep safe,
are nothing more than adapted wolves
who we trust to lose their nature.
Which of them have eaten sheep,
and who is still on bread and water.

Man once hunted by walking after things-
just following till they died.
I fear I have to walk over oceans
to follow where my prey has gone.

Fold here
and fold again.
So that the meal made last night
touches a picture of her laughing
lips as red as dark wine,
that you drank alone with unlit candles.

fold again,
add in the paper cut outs from the fridge.
Your face in black and white,
not smiling for the photographers camera-
creased up
corner to corner with a crayon drawing of a yellow sun
and green lollipop trees.

fold again,
and its a boat or hat made from newspaper memories
for a little boy to wear down the lane to the bus stop.
And that is folded up again so the daily path
falls under a breakup and absent parents
with band posters on the wall and keep out signs on the door
all shadowing the empty side of the bed.

fold
and fold again till its a card board box
filled to the brim with you.

fold again to make a lid,
fold till it fits in one hand.
fold in with gossamer and silk
and you sneak it to the one you love...

but she cant read you lines
can't follow your folds to unwrap the inside,
no one can.
The box gets dropped and set aside.

and so you fold and fold again.

"Will you miss me?"
wide eyed, and pouting
she said this to the night.

Miss you,
does it matter?
In the days to come
as paths diverge
Will I miss you?
what good will it do for you to know

Will I miss you?
Ask yourself
"Will I miss him?"
As the soul aches
what good does pinning bring
for some one pinning back.

Why do you miss?
Is it some aspect unique,
or shared bond never felt before?
Like a sun around the earth
I have moved to miss,
and yet an earth I have found beneath to hit.
what in me do you have to miss?

My manners are found elsewhere
as your aspects are pieced together in others.
If life designs that we should part forever;
Then I will find you in others,

As I hope you find me again.

No.
Stop, please...
How do you not know
how strong you are?
You are human aren't you-
made of star stuffs
like me? Pieced together,
clawing at existence for another day.
Each breathe belies worth,
there was effort in your breathing.
How do you not see it?
That's the difference between the living and the dead-
the shear desire to survive.
You have paid the price already
to exist.
Fight for it, life is worth
how you struggle for it.
You gain what you put in.
There is no fun in easy,
only grey, weary complacency
tired and in its bed.
Do not fall simply to your rest,
swallowed whole by puffed up sheets-
Strive for the colored life.
Splashed with passion's hues
pulled from the painted memory
of any human soul-
that is when living
truly comes to life.

You are a ridiculous woman
who makes me ponder the most...
innocuous of sentences for... anything
that might betray a semblance of something
deep beneath your simple surface.
I shouldn't like you.
At least I don't know why I do,
and there are so many reasons too.

Your freckles and chromatic shifting eyes,
telling me lies, I swear to you they are green...
Your voice and that smile with a dot to your lips
and the way you look to the world, wide open
yet

so brilliantly concealed.

The wisps of your hair, escaping from their tie
and how ***** your hands are, I know the creases
by sight; even those covered by paint.

Yet I have not felt them, clasped them in mine...
How fragile are you? You could break at my touch,
or run in fear at my boorishness.
You, such a beautiful flower, give me nothing but questions,
how can I pick you without plucking your stem,
Should I bring you water, do I block your sun?
I do not speak Flower...

So yet you elude me, without ever having moved.
While I fight to find the face past the flowers.
To find the heart of you,
the part of you that draws me in.
The reason that I like you.

The sound was sonorous
and never loud.
It carried casually, reverberating implausibly through the marrow;
Echoing off edges, imperfections and cavernous recesses.
it sounded softly, spreading through the soul’s spaces.
It had charisma.
Attraction.
Punctuation.
It sung in silence, basked in pauses.

It had powerful movements,
a flame brought to fruition from
single ember to raging forest fire.
The sentences beat strokes
and fanned the inferno of thought.
It was heat to power cogs.
Each phrase moved mental turbines
to power lights in neural cities,
to pass as a light through darkness.

As much as it ached with fire of meaning,
the chords of vocal music flow long,
like rivers strummed by fingers strong as giants.
Its sound undulates among the minds terrain.
With the waves of simple symphony,
a single voice can deluge on the ocean of thoughts,
washing out weaker words, weaker voices,  
and erode the heart of society
leaving the sediment of something new
to glimmer in the river bed.

Why don't I want to sleep,
do I earn for a few extra
paltry hours in a half light
basking in a realm of quiet stillness
filled only with the sounds
of murmured fakery.
What warmth does the yellow glow
cast on the walls by
lonesome floor lamps afford me.
Outside of the door is blackness
and inside of the door
is merely an illusion of lightness,
black will descend as light recedes.
Do I fear my dreams in the dark,
in the place where life walks true-
am I scared to be the demon
that hides within the bed.
Where will my midnight musings take me
when unbridled by my walls
left free to roam through every thought?
Where did I leave its food?
I fear I left it where I tread the most
in what should be dark recesses
but now have over grown my mind.
Maybe I cling to light to not be overthrown,
by the parts of me that have grown wild
in my absent, uncaring ways.
What now lurks within the empty halls
of my sad forgotten heart.
Maybe we will reconcile and I will be
chased into the light,
or then again those beasts within
may get the best of me
and I will live a nightmare
till I wake again.

I am the average
of everyone around me,
a culmination of personalities
to create a person new.

Originality is as the ocean bottom,
seen from my surface
like a clear glass lake
and brought above the depths
by careful copying.

Each article makes up me,
an existence fragile,
changed by single moments
and tiny moving,
dust blown about a breeze.

As a scale tipping
life of mine,
is merely the summation
of motes resting
one on another,
by another,
with another.

Just so, each of us
is just the one
who passed after those before
and what we see
is because we are giants
on the shoulders
of giants.

quiet halls,
that echo with a breath-
cascading dust down darkened halls
softly lit, as though they are at rest.
The rooms so stark,
within the gloom, active still
as ghosts of past
go flitting through the walls,
faint perfume lingers as their scent-
the air feels warm
with loving ties,
and words spoke in silence
yet always understood.
The house made of wood and stone
collected some of what lived within
and the warmth made this house
a home.

A thousand voices crying out
look at me,
"I  AM SAD"
aren't we all.
its that time, to be sad,
for loneliness
for a dark pit of violent apathy
with sides lubricated by ineptitude and blood
from scrapes from past attempts.
Its hard to climb out of that pit
sadness placed us in

with all the others.

so make a friend,
bandage up their scrapes and bruises
your clothes don't make much use
in a place where cold can't touch you
and light is not invented.

light up another person so they might light up you.

Five feet left from yesterday,
I think that's where Beauty died.
She didn't die from lack of anything
forensics says there was just
too many hands around her neck.

Its boring when real people are fake
it would be better for a story to have
fake people that are real
in timeline where the hero doesn't get the girl
but he gets a girl,
and the two teach each other
to become the couple,
not a couple.
not a story about being perfect
but a story of finding out how to be human brilliantly.
Its bad enough that we only learn extremes,
how not to do things
not how things could be done.
we could be trapped in the lines of fake
heroes and
a story might teach us to be real.

Its not that I am lazy
or even qualify as depressed, it is just
that everything tastes like cardboard
and I have forgotten how to cry.

Maybe you can forget to see in color,
and resign to politically correct,
where grey is the new black and white
and contrast was killed in the womb.

Society does have a thing
against the dead coming back to life,
or do they despise those they've buried reaching toward the light
I never got the story straight.

Even if its weird, I wish I had an outside
with a sun just of my own
so I can fight to give it's light to people that I like
instead of  having to pretend that everyone is perfect.

Maybe its that humans tend to go crazy
if there is no hero to their villain,
and the survival instinct could just disappear
if nothing tries to **** you.

I wouldn't say I am tired of living,
but I may be bored of being dead.

A trail of bread crumbs to the witches house,
through the forest that haunted that strange little town.
she was never quite loved-
that lone confectioner.
pushed to the outskirts
by those that live for white picket fences
and the grass growing green and even.
When the authorities came by,
they found two kids, fat and happy,
but not by the hand of the woman.
There was no cage in the house made of sugar;
for what sweetened cage could hold a child?
No, the once fragile and beautiful house
that glittered like spun glass,
sat eaten and worn at the loss of her owner
for little old ladies do not devour children,
but children will **** for candy.

I've spun my memories into a cage and,

I am sorry, I am not a good person
And I could never make myself care.

Now I am trapped in nostalgia
Looking out through these brittle bars,

I remember the day we met
And we never talked again that year,
You spent all that time wishing I would see you

But it’s hard to see with these tears
Forming glass on my eyes.

And one day I tripped
Right into your arms, I brought you happiness.

In a way it burns my sight
Since the rooms are too dark
For my eyes to see

You were more beautiful then I knew,
And I left.

Outside my head,
The world became fearful
Or I became afraid

Wilfully walking out,
On friendship, love,

And now I wish I had been strong enough,

*I was frightened to never be alone.

The skeletons
I buried out back with a rusty shovel
claw each other
to climb out of the earth;
left there from days gone past
they fight to live again.

The dwarfed squat bones
of whims that died in conception
climb the bigger ones-
the ones that walked in the light
and those climb those bigger still,
and in the center...

an imposing mass,
lies the biggest of them all.
the only one
too big to move,
fed by shame and loved too long;
it was a giant at it’s death,
and has nothing he can climb.
His hand’s outstretched
to grasp for life
and finds only the soft brown dirt
that keeps him in the ground.
All the other little fears
climb up him,
as their ladder to blue skies.

But I slew my monsters long ago
their souls no longer rise.
All that’s left is memories,
to haunt my weary eyes
as they climb upon
their ladder to blue skies.

People like to lord their humanity
over those they find
less human,
to those people
that a certain definition of human doesn't fit.
"how can you-
hope to be me."
as if they were the pure form of human...
What they forget
is we are all merely monsters,
gallivanting as civilized
and sometimes

we forget which fork is for the meat
and eating our pasta with the salad fork;

we betray our monster.

But also people forget
that angels are just another form of monster
who forgot to be human.
And if we ever could forget our skins
we could just lean down
and help a fellow monster
find his wings
before we meld back into the sky.

In the stark white marbled halls
where the pit of the gods lay,
where they cry out their inky black tears of depression,
at the fall of their progeny,
at the loss of their dreams;
here my heart sinks in despair
plugging the last remaining escape for the blackness
causing it to swirl and eddy,
pooling within the clean white depression that lies in the heart
of this palace to humanity.
It rises slowly from its drainage ditch,
like an inescapable horror
plodding on tirelessly till it over takes me.
There are stairs down to the pit
vanishing silently as the thick waters rise;
how I long to step into those waters
and feel their warm embrace;
I can feel it surrounding my heart, sunken as it is,
and my body yearns for that comfort,
for what I have known all my life.
Sinking in to my chest,
the water hugs in,
grasping my body,
lifting me up to float effortlessly on its sadness.
Held aloft by my old friend, I close my eyes
to sleep in silence and wait
for light to linger here again.

Let's go some place brilliantly blue
where gold grows green
and the world finds red
only when the yellow goes to rest,
and we can dance bare foot
to the light of those shimmering colors
refracting in the prisms of glass
struck up by our swiftly swinging feet.
We can spin as the world turns
purple in our eyes as white comes out
to play in our merry games,
and we will jump around brown turned blue
hiding and seeking,
finding the light in joy surrounded by black.
It will be you and me
in this land so full of color
so that our eyes cloud magnificeint hues
when we realize;
we can't contain this with any form of paint.

I sat outside tonight,
because the world was beautiful,
for the sky matched the rain;
a star for every droplet
of pure musical chime.

As I lay upon sweet soaked grass,
my surroundings became nothing more
then great harmonics from a sparkling xylophone
situated within a black room filled with glitter-
who no one told where to stop,
and it stretched to fill all notes of sound.

In this massive expanse of the imagination,
beset by stimulus on every side,
the human mind finds the space to dream in silver-chrome
and make it turn reality.

It's just like walking on air.
Easy at first, easier still,
if you get the running start-
legs racing and your arms pumping-
for just one more inch of distance,
but then physics kicks in
and you fall.
You fall slowly cause
the air here is viscous
and sadistic and
lets you drink in the moment
for hours-
that turn into days-
that turn into weeks;
just long enough that
you forget that you are falling,
you forget that sudden silence
as you fell from the unseen bridge
like a pin twirling in air.
Then you hit the ground
and-
there's a bounce and a twinkling sound
as life leaves the body.
The pin then stops in rest.

This is just a reflection of a reflection,
nothing more
than a mirror watching
a reflection pool
as it ripples in the wind,
the lone grand path
to the statue at the end.
If we could, but
walk on water we would reach
this marble plinth
and read in its lines,
in its form,
what it means to be human;
a secret we long to learn fully.
As it is we content ourselves with this-
the reflection of a reflection.
Today the water ripples;
pushed by the winds not found yesterday,
and in each small wave
the reflection of a reflection
dances and glitters, showing us
one new piece of the plinth we long to see;
taunting us with beauty,
filling us with peace.
Each new day brings a new
reflection of a reflection
giving us hope to find the subtle meaning
and youthful grace we knew so long ago-
but that is lost to us.
We leapt for knowledge
and forgot the ways to walk on water,
so now we watch and write about
our reflection of a reflection.

Tell me,
do you tire yet
of yellow roses
littering your wall;
hanging upside down,
and weeping their color
unto your bedroom floor
as they fade to match
the beige wall paper
they are tied to.
Paint one red
with passionate love.
let it be the shocking difference
in a swollen sea
of normalcy,
and long forgotten friends.
When its color fades
I promise to you
it will not go beige
to blend into its surroundings,
fading from your sight.
It will remain dark red
like wine, a reminder
of those heady moments
and happy nights,
where joy and laughter
flowed down the street
from interlocking fingers
moving in step
to one conjoined beat.
Hang that flower
in the middle
so it may proclaim
“I have stolen her heart,
and given her mine”.
Don’t settle now for yellow roses;
reach out and paint
a rose deep red.

A shoe on the building.
The other in…
Well ,
It’s in the air.
One step forward
Or, maybe,
It’s one step back.
Sometimes
It’s hard to say
Because-
Flying is like falling
Just  don’t hit the ground.
At least,
That’s what they say.
There are two shoes,
Twisted,
Tied together,
Linked by their strings-
A couple
Hanging alone-
Just sitting here,
With a shoe on the building;
And the other in the air.

How do you
exclaim love for another
when their touch
leaves you breathless-
gasping for air
as they send electric shock waves
up and down your spine,
lighting your skin
on fire;
making it hard to think
and convey a world
that didn't exist
five seconds ago,
because five seconds ago
they weren't looking at you
and you can't speak over
the Morse code your heart
is pounding at your head...

it’s hard enough to speak
when your tongue
doesn't have too much to say.

How then do you show
value for the quiet love;
the love you don't realize
till one second too late.
The one that never burned your skin
or sent electricity down your spine,
but it kept you warm on cold nights
and gave you energy in your need.
How do you thank the silent love.
The one that sat there
while you sat-
just so you weren't alone.
How do you thank a person
you never notice
till their hole eats up your life.