Loving me is complicated.
Loving me is Complicated
Loving Me is complicated.
Where do I force the demons to keep
my soul at peace.
Is it smathering writing on the walls?
jukebox hits down the hall?
Will my "too big to" punches fall
on deaf blows?
will the tear in my shirt bind us
when justice is restored?
The drip, drip, drip of sobriety,
the anti-drug,
bring down the volume of inspired voices,
throwing up the curtain of the brutal ancestors
saying conform or die.
Where is the statue of the first suicide?
The first man to look around,
and realize the futility to change the motion of the machine,
and that even by existing, perpetuated it.
A moment of silence, for everyone
forgotten by history books,
who died rejecting the hypocritical notion
that is polite society.

The lack of sleep it creeps
into my mind.
Stoned.
I have no will to fight it.
The lonely thoughts,
the regrets.
No it won't suffice.
The melancholy pills,
kill the rational son shine.
Emboldened romance,
memories too perfect to have been true,
charge from the very bottom of my heart.
Half dreams that I hold on to,
that should be burned, buried, and forgotten.
I threw everything else away that reminded me of you.
They are all that's left.
A poor man I am,
reduced to pathetic hopes.
Scraps.
The meager meals scrounged for my soul.
It starves, but I go on.

"Taking a life, takes away all their opportunities."

Beauty strikes the heart,
and rips asunder
the vital viscera,
the furring flesh,
the mud and meat
that makes a man.
It strikes the boy hiding under the covers.
The child with magnificent dreams
of love and life, not yet lived.
It pounds, pummels, and clobbers
life back into my icy veins.
I cry, not for the pain,
but the awakening
of not having lived.
Sap galore,
but fear will not hold the reigns.
Death holds no candle
to suffocating once more.
If only hearts we could transplant
for you to see
what seed you did plant
inside me.

What a shrewd, cruel man I am.
Cleverly hiding my emotions
away from reproach.
If I were a bird,
my feathers I'd show.
Plumage bright and vainglorious,
attracting little birds that know not better.
Til the quick snap.
Affronted by their doting,
repulsed by their affection,
I churn.
Hazarding nothing,
expecting everything,
I draw blood for cowardice,
and call it love.

"I love you,  goodbye",
The tombstone read
in the relationship graveyard
where our love did bed. 

But, who was I?

Who was I?

What figment of me

stood in your head?

An abuser,

too cold to touch,

weighing on your heart

a piece of lead.

Never forgiven, for

never having understood

that tears were proof

of emotions it led.

Am I forgotten?

Is this the end?

"I'm Sorry, I Love you",

the card I left,

read.

You went walking out one night,
through my mind.
When I saw you would not come back
I hid you in my heart.

What does it mean to forgive?
The curtain drawn back,
reveals the barren stage.
A solitary figure stands in the center,
the lights casting his shadow high against the back wall.
Is he real, or the illusion of light?
Is he true to himself?
These questions swirl with the mist
as it traverses the splintery wood.
Below the rot eats away,
the moths choke on the curtains.
He watches himself,
not sure if he is audience or actor.
There he sits in the lone hall,
there he stands on the empty stage.
"Love"
The words echo around.
"Ah" He thinks,
"So simple, so deep."
But the word ends in silence.
An invisible orchestra begins with drums;
"Buh-BUM! Buh-BUM!"
Plaster rains, panels fall.
Having never been,
it does not matter at all.

A miserable tune should be locked away from the night.
Into the cacophony of trees it leads. Morpheus's forest.
"Babylon", the road that feet fall into beaten footprints,
lined with a choir of golden weeping willows.
Mourning on their bowed boughs; tear drop petals, falling all.
Forget-me-nots, blue as sky, pass into the Forgotten.
A dark recess where perfect twines with never.
The resting place of the woods, as the Dawn Chorus trumpets.

A painting in a trash can
of a woman with lovely skin.
She holds in her hand a paintbrush
that creates the worlds she's in.
The years make him cold, and
the man who she belonged to
no longer hungers for.
For the great heights of triumph,
to the rivers of the low.
In the rubbish she sits,
a queen on a garbage throne.
Out side the streets are quiet,
the rain drives all inside.
A silent moment in a world,
for which a painted tear,
she cried.

I wonder how astronauts feel when they return from space.
Do they miss the weightlessness?
To glide so effortlessly would be a ballerina's wet dream.
Perhaps they go skydiving,
and when they do they close their eyes
and block out the wind in their ears,
and just for a second, it's almost like they're back.
Do they line their floors with trampolines,
and bounce from room to room?
Although, going to the restroom would be hard.
And when they dream they get excited because they are back in a rocket ship.
It shoots to the stars, but before they can break through earth's gravity
they awake, back in bed.