I
    forget
                   how
                               this
                                           one
                                                      goes...

She didn’t want you so she left
you hanging out in the air,
remembering not how you got there to begin with,
but you fall nevertheless, and
the softness you had expected
has been replaced with nothing
but rocks sharp as daggers to break your fall,
and leave you broken.

What would you do if I were to leave
If something were to happen, a horror to conceive
My darling I don’t mean to be
So melancholy
But what would you do if I were to leave

What will you say when I have gone away
Was I still a stranger on my dying day
Had I let you in or kept you locked out in the cold
My dearest I pray I loved you well
As we both grew old.

What will be done as I’m laid in the ground to rest
I hope I’ll not be dressed in my very best
Some old worn and tattered clothes will do
For it seems such a waste
To leave fine things to death and decay

When you’ve finally passed my dear
Will your soul come rest with mine
As the world continues turning, paying us no more mind
Our tombstones declare me loving, yours will claim you were kind
But both words suit yours better than just one does on mine.

Give me stairs
To attain some lofty pinnacle
For stairs are sheer simplicity
An elegant solution to reach some apogee
Incapable of failure unlike the
Mechanical complexities deriving from indolence
Presumed superior to the apparent drudgery
Of clambering upward unhurriedly and
Thus assembled ultimately to fail and frustrate my overwrought soul
While archaic stairs continue unwavering ever upwards  
Give me stairs

Love is a chessboard
And no matter how I play
I am always checked

dying from the cold
metaphorically speaking
for it was summer

I am tired of life, how nothing coming is ever new
the skies for too long have been grey, never again to turn back blue
nothing to left to create, nothing worth striving for
so when opportunity knocks
I now simply lock the door.

We all must be ready for the ends of our times,

For death does not waiver so neither shall I.

And when my hour comes; Ill look to the next life,

For death’s "final say” is merely a lie.

Because of the asphyxiation
Of the inebriation caused by another soul,
Perhaps she is the half to complete your whole.
Spending your time in reverie
Woolgathering the next time you’re fortunate enough to see
Her smile.

Overthinking comes naturally
So Plans are fabricated tactfully to meet with her again,
Thoughts of her consuming you like some euphoric sin.
The infatuation only brief
Ends usually with demoralizing grief
So they call it a crush

Your emergence into the corner of my musing;
Is like a virus, initially subtle and unrecognizable.
Then, steadily and swiftly, dominating my mind
Until you are my sole infatuation.
A disease from which I hope to never recover.

Tremendous curiosity floated in the air
                                   *gleaming eyes of experience
         with so much malicious intent
                                                                work
                                                                           *about