Benzo, blur my mornings and bury my feelings.
Beat down my misery and banish my ecstasy.
Steal my sweetness and turn my stillness sour.
Spit out a new me, and the old me, devour.
You stick in my throat like a longing to say
something I had too soon, too easily forgotten.
Trapped and helpless at the tip of my tongue
is each little thought and each one turns rotten.
Now all my worries wash grey and bore me asleep,
as time stops his march and slows to a creep
that claws through my head, and the worries unsaid
are left to fester in a foul and filthy old heap.  
Though they may reek like flesh on a dying fire,
I could take them or leave them just where they are.
I have no heat, no bold and burning desire
to do anything but nothing, and, so, to nothing I retire.  
Leave me be beeping alarm that screams like a maniac
so desperate to jump to his next brewing thought.
Leave me be roaring traffic, so equally manic,
leave me here in my head to lose this loose plot.

You're the sun to my shine,
I'm the yours to your mine.
I'll love you forever,
plus a day.
My love for you
will always outweigh
the mares of your night
and the needle in your hay.
When you're feeling bluer
than blue
or lost on your path
with no trace of a clue,
I'll help the sun in you
shine out and make the
world seem
new.
You're the see to my sight
and the day to my night
and the smile to my plight
and you love me just right,
and I'll  be here for you
from yellow 'til blue.
I
Love
You.

The sun glowed on us when our paths first crossed,
Far from home we grew close, closer still;
Laughter filled our days, and moonlight our walks,
As we talked amidst an October chill.
But quickly new feelings came into view.
Is our friendship becoming something more?
Your confusing words are not the old you,
In your eyes—is that a glint of amour?
I wish your true feelings you would express;
I silently debate mine when alone.
Mixed signals abound, and “us” I *****:
Is it friendship? Or have your feelings grown?
I will be here as you figure it out,
Platonic or beyond, I'd love no doubt.

What is our life? The play of passion.
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy.
The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.