Earthly Love

To say "I miss you", carries little impact. 

As to say "I love you", means nothing to how I have shown it. 

I remember nights I could feel you. 

Thinking back now to having picked out your favorite beer.

How did I know? 

How did I know when you would call? 

Or at times when you were lying, though you lie all the time;

Especially to yourself, my stupid love. 

I'm gonna guess, 

None of it mattered. 

How could I know what to think, 

Loving a liar; 

Loving you. 

How could I?

The Doll

Like Gold. 

Fingertips do reach 

       for me.

I paint, you abed, 

On your stomach, 

Eyes seeing

Me watching back. 

I love you, where you stay; 

Painting you in watercolor this day, 

But watching your eyes reach for me, 

As I touch your human face, 

Flesh and bone, 

And the lips I long to kiss so. 

I imagine, your flesh in my hands, 

Your eyes, and watching them go cold, 

When looking at me. 

I imagine, you would hate the way my warm body, lights your heart, and the way my eyes, will scare you. 

In my dream, you love me. 

I reach for you now, 

Missing you now, 

Missing something everyday, 

Never given. 

I have begged, yelled, cursed, and charmed to get yes's out of you. 

I have listened to the swindle of beats and Rythyms in the nights, to love affairs and winds while thinking and awaiting for you from so afar. 

Like a little girl dreaming, and trying...

Til alas, 

So many a time, you shoed me away; swatted at me, like a dog, and broom in hand. 

I remember nights, had and never had, between you and I; 

Dreams indeed do die. 

And new ones 

Get dreamt up. 

I know, what our ration tells us, 

Is that far enough in, 

I might come to my senses- reasons you push, and reasons I push back. 

Reasons you run, and I follow. 

But it is the in-between that snags me; 

That keeps me...

Listening into the wind for you. 

Looking into the sky for you; 

Waiting.

Waiting. 

Irrational 

As ever. 

When I should have been running; 

I had bound my soul to you. 

And indeed, 

It would seem, 

You locked me, in a glass cabinet...

Soul and all; 

Willing to take, but not play with the doll. 

I had loved you; 

But she was your Clown, I. 

I...was the doll, 

You never enjoyed, 

But sadisticly; 

Like me. 

As is stands, 

I miss what would be mine, 

For the moments I would take you. 

Sure now, that if you let me, 

You would be cold and done, 

Just as you always have been. 

Cold, and undone. 

And done. 

And owner, to a doll, you keeper locked away in view, though rarely, 

Will you free her, to you. 

Arms stretched. 

Fingertips Gold. 

Eyes Abound. 

I've always been falling now. 

Falling now. 

Staring at you, through the glass; 

Sealed to my fate, 

Though ever in love, 

With something cold and dry. 

Waiting. 

Waiting for one day, 

For you to have a change of mind; 

Heart. 

For you to change your heart, 

To what in me, 

You have locked away, 

On still what is, 

A very cold day. 

The Thought of You

The thought of you coming back; 

Changes with the song, 

The mood, the low-hip jive, 

Of soultry-soul, 

Smokey and good riddence.

..Smokey, 

And Good Riddence

Maybe it was because, 

You were a charm.

And I knew it; 

Like inhaling your scent would make me bend, And your eyes, 

And your way, make me bend, 

Like a drunken tree, 

To heavy nights of wind; 

You were my Summer Tropic-Storm, 

But watched it melt away, nay, 

To a colder and more grey-like glow, as Summer faded, 

As I'd known it would. 

As it always Does. 

And I look south, 

As if looking to the past, 

Catching myself glimpse, 

The

 feeling you'd left in me- 

A feeling I've stricken low, to move past quickly;

One that I wonder if longs to resurface. 

I pushed sadness down..

Not out. 

                                              Love

                                    In

                        

               Falling

What does it mean, that the creator of this phrase implores "falling". 

To fall. 

I fall. 

Into Love....?! 

History Lost

My story is not different. 

It tells of the same subtlties, the same nuances, that will get scraped under the rug of human histories, through attempted portrayals told. 

What may be lost, may be lost forever, 

With one, but "this" voice, 

To attempt a stories tale. 

What is in the tale, 

Is the subtlety and nuance of what will always remain to be said, 

And the screams of it's truths, toiling a surface below. 

The purpose, I fear, will be lost, 

If the subtlties, the nuances 

Get lost as well. 

Who was she? 

Who was she really? 

We are not what our Fathers make of us, nor relations or teachers alike. 

We are, much deeper. 

And that deep resides in our nuances- tales perhaps, only we can tell. 

And well, I have a great many thing to tell, but I suspect, they will lay captured in the fruits of my head, never to see daylight, 

And with them, so do I perish only partially. 

It is the tale that will never be told. 

The silences. The underscores. The mirror between her and God...

And the worlds-

The doorway of her mind, now shut. 

The observations scattered without catalogue as she races to get to the punch line. The bottomless pit, of her heart. 

There are things, that even should I write, might never be known;The nuances breathing time past her, while she stayed still watching the universe spiral without. 

It is a story that will likely die, with me. 

Like too many a men, that had divine undercurrent, but vesseled without witness, except as their own. 

And sometimes our story does die with us...

But it doesn't hurt, trying to write it, along the way. Attempting to capsulize the nuances, 

Of what it has meant, 

To be me. To live....THIS life. To make sense of it. To nurture myself through, and to comprehend for me, what no man wilt. 

Why? 

Why? 

Just that question: why? 

Do we Be? 

And why do we ponder it? 

And why do we suffer our live's liberty at the hands of others most days? 

Why? 

Why wouldn't I think about this? 

Why, 

Would I? 

Perhaps if nothing else, 

To preserve the nuances, 

Of who I used to be. 

Who am I? 

If not these? 

What is Essense and purpose, if not these? 

These nuances. 

That will go on, as the body, 

Of man's story. 

The Room

There were so many times, 

I didn't know how I kept going. 

At a cross roads more than ever before; 

That in itself says something. 

The world around me, trembles and burns in fire. 

I lay awake, bed-ridden, attempting to massage away pains, 

That only awaken with me the next day, 

And the next...

And the next. 

Looking for a way through, 

Peace has come a bit, 

But so has has life fallen, 

And in acceptance. 

I feel trapped to make moves, but not moves I'd choose. 

I have watched this life burn, 

All around me.

I have watched it go up in flames. 

And I have walked my self back, 

Everyday, 

To a secluded apartment that has become my life. 

Even saving the world, has become impossible when I can't get out of bed. 

The system eats up my money, 

And leaves me for dead. 

I have observed the hearts of men, feed the blackness that feeds on life. 

And in doing so, 

I have watched myself die, 

In a room of solitude. 

The Check Point

Faul, 

I let down, 

as this spark of mine, wares off, 

And instead of anything but, 

I wait for it all to be done with. 

Walking away, 

I turn my back now, 

Even to myself; 

She is dead.

Currently. 

At least in mind, and soul- the god-blessed body taking too long to follow suit; damned indeed, 

I know Hell, all too well; damned indeed. 

Every worth is questioned, 

Parallel to a developing numb-cold 

Thing. 

All that is left, 

Is not much; 

My enemies know not what they have done, as I, and most others...

Meet our retribution through a karma fair. 

I, 

Must have been aweful 101, to deserve this. 

And my mind unwinds now. 

Rattles. 

Bellows in hollow shells. 

The land bleeds and I carry it's smell. 

One too many...

One too many. 

Took up...

What WAS her; 

One too many. 

But I wasn't crying wolf. 

I was begging and pleading for someone to take me out, to get me out, to rescue me from the prison of my hell. 

I wasn't crying wolf. 

I was just crying. 

And here I remain. 

My life meaning nothing, 

Against time. 

Or power. 

Maybe meaning EVERYTHING 

To someone. 

but I have failed deeply now. 

And I sit on the bench, looking at the present like a sunset. 

Faith maybe left; I won't deny that. 

But I can not feel it's magic where now, there lay a broken girl, 

Who speaks not much anymore...

More and more...

Growing silent...

From all her un-responded-to 

Screams. 

The Runt

Dear Life...


I will not be playing with you, for today.
I need a break, like a mad-woman in prison...
stares becoming rolling streams of tears;
make no mistake;
She knows she's gone over.

The headaches, disassemble her cognition, replacing it with pain instead.
Nerves feel raw, and internally exposed, shooting signals of pain that would make a grown man cry. 
Walking,
 needing a blanket, to muffle sound and light, withdrawn...
withdrawn, she's drawn...
and drawn...
and one day...
she'd been so drawn away,
she didnt know if it would even be worth,
finding her way back.

See, Life...this isn't just about today. This isn't just about anything...
but a began inability
to get back up.

My EVERYTHING grows weak, trembling...
though somehow the show of who I am stands for approval;
gotta survive...right?

But you know,
and I know...
I never belonged here.

I die here, everyday,
like a sentencing.
headaches taking everything from me,
but not before I had a chance to dream it up.

I go mad, pulling at my hair, watching the mind unravel, because, I failed.
and they are right; the enemies...
I have never been strong enough.
Maybe a genius in there...
but a weak runt, always sick.

And they won. As right as they are.
I have no place to run now. for i choose to bind myself by love, and sacrifice.
I am scared for her....

Something needs to change.

The Cauldron

I am hot, with fire, craving,
for soft hands, tracing my tilting in.

Cracks seep, and yeah, don't bother, that's just me.
Shell. Shadow. Something.
Traces of Something,

once there.

Blood streams, like tears; have you ever noticed?
They do a dance together,
the water, when hits, Crimson Red.

I miss a man, like death,
a love, like life,

and a life, like love.

There are things simply just given up on;
mostly but not souly.

Nothing in me, strikes to breathe, but
the mere nature that is left,
as I am.

I am,
wild, beastly, savagely becoming untame, and undone,
and undone,
and wound up,
turned over,
all over again; streaming with blood,
and searching again, for what it means,
to dream.

"dream", is almost a word i don't recognize at present;
like somehow the concept was wiped from me, and is only another life's memory.
A pre-Amnesia.

I have been stripped of my dignity
and my clothes,
left there holding them naked
like the embarrassment of loving someone so deeply,
yet, espeonage from a get-go of false pretenses
and manipulating purposes,
leaves only faul things left
from a poisoned garden.

MY heart is a land now,
gone bare, grey..
dark,
and darker...
hurting,
sinking,
falling, failing....
regression,
taking over,
dwelling in a place now,
more of cold lands, all together,
and a very dimming light.

But don't worry.
That's just me.
"I'm fine".

I don't know "fine", anymore, than I used to,
and even that, is no grand comparison.

They wiped the floor with me.
I don't know where she went...
but madness, is a slow cooking in a pot...

And I was done so long ago.
to think...
one single act of LOVE could have prevented it...

just one passerbyer..
willing to turn off the boil.

The Bluebird & Man

Tears elapse, to string riffs, 

And the melting of the cosmos 

Into liquid. 

Single tears form drip-

The ears hearing rivers 

That make her cry. 

The birds dwindling away, 

To memory..

The crickets and reeds, here now, 

But soaked in years of change, 

And a threat only the more imminent, 

As time passes. 

The person, I have come to be, 

Is only innocent in heart. 

Like the memory of the birds, 

Long gone. 

And the growing plague, 

And the deafening drones, 

The nation goes rott 

With man's black heart, 

Tarring everything. 

Who's mercy am I at? 

Not merely my own perhaps? 

Or perhaps? 

Far reaches, life has only become some far away, unachievable dream, 

As "we were tought" to dream. 

She dreams no longer much, 

But for freedom. 

Regressing from an open birch to a cage now, in her lands now...

Where man has tarred everything. 

Once blue, 

I am only shades of grey now. 

Somewhere beneath, 

Remain the light. 

Still, my heart is tarred. 

Because I am man. 

And she, my bluebird, 

Is the Goddess, I cage tight. 

So tight. 

With mean ferocity. 

The BlackHole

The point of life, 

Collapses like a star, 

Taking everything with it. 

Taking man, and life, it made...

And swallowing up man's tyranny and man's love. 

 

What will be lost and what will be gained 

Is but a question, 

But here, I long to be reborn, 

A star again. 

And to die, to everything that has been 

In the handed justice of history; an injustice pervasive. 

Wars and love lost, 

As I am swallowed whole. 

Receiving once more, 

The death of everything's breath, 

And perhaps a memory of who we really are. 

For to die here, is a blind-man's death.