Some people will die
And we will never know why,
We just close our eyes
and cry,
wondering why,
we couldn't say,
Bye.

I bet Jesus liked Chocolate Ice Cream

Chocolate ice cream
is absolutely the best,
Joe said.

But Joe,
I like Vanilla more,
said Jackie.

I don't see why,
almost everyone likes chocolate,
it is the most popular flavor.

It wasn't always that way Joe,
a long, long time ago,
lots of people favored Vanilla.

And what about the other flavors?
Are none of them as good as chocolate?
Isn't chocolate ice cream just a preference?
There really isn't a best flavor is there,
since it is all ultimately subjective?

I don't know,
said Joe,
I just like Chocolate,
and you should too.

It's almost like being
dunked in to a pool
of freezing water.
My entire body locks up,
my jaw is frozen,
and I am unable to talk.
Words trickle out
like the last stubborn
bit of toothpaste left in the tube.
This is the punishment
given to the shy people
all over the world.

We're all just people
that live one day
and die the next.

So as a living creature
be not concerned
or self-conscious.

You are beautiful.

Thus History Repeats

Another failed summer,
lying on my stomach in my
warm, musty room
with my ceiling fan
spraying dust on me.
My days are spent working,
a place with memories of you.
My nights are spent alone,
my only company are
thoughts of what our future holds.
Some random song is playing
during my sadness,
and I know for the rest of my life,
the connotations the song will hold.
I'll write a fiction story
to take my mind off of you,
but eventually it comes to an end,
and I will get the guts to call you,
and we may or may not talk long,
and I will probably ask you out,
and you will probably say okay,
and probably cancel at the last minute,
breaking the already shattered glass
of this see-through window called my heart.

What do you know about my past?
Nothing.
What do you know,
about living on the sixth floor
with no friends?
What do you know?
Nothing.
What do you know about burying your head in a pillow,
and contemplating suicide as a legitimate option?
You know nothing.
What do you know about Tom Petty and Birdland?
What do you know about the only friends I had,
and the free Ventrilo channel that became my social life?
You know nothing about how 電車男 moved my heart.
You know nothing.

So many things I could've done different,
so many things I could do different now.
I hate thinking about going back,
it puts a bowling ball in my stomach.
I don't know where I belong
inside of that world.

Watching those damn YouTube videos
makes me sad,
and I hate giving speeches.

Vietnamese Jungles

He heard the sound of an AK-47
and stopped to take time to think.
That was his first mistake.
The M-16s got jammed in the jungles
so sometimes they'd pick up AK's
dropped by the VC's.
He knew where the sound
was coming from, and probably
where its owner was.
But was it a VC, like he thought,
or an ally who's gun was broken?
He stopped, to think about
the weight of his decision.

He thought to himself:
This place wasn't meant
for thinking men,
and fired his weapon.

Even as it's forming you can see the problems
formulate themselves inside of your head.
You know what will go wrong,
it's just a matter of when and where.
What you don't know is why it goes wrong,
just that it will, in all plausible circumstances.
You clutch on to a keepsake or ideal
that symbolizes faith or hope.
You pray it will be different from last time
so hard that you should be in a Church.
So you live day-by-day until out of nowhere
a snake slithers out from the tall grasses
and strikes you with its venom of secrets,
just like you knew it always would.

There are some people
that are happy for me
because of it.

There are some
that hate me
because of it.

There are some
that question me
because of it.

And there are some,
that despite it,
don't even know me.

Some people waste their lives
in front of computer screens,
and others drinking beer.
Some people waste it working
and others in something
other than happiness.
So you ask why I do this.
You ask why the choices I make
and the dreams I choose to pursue
are always filled with difficulty.
The only answer I have for that
is destiny doesn't have a cookie cutter shape
that you can press down
on to a mushy dough called life.

The World Around You

There's an entire world around you
but none of it matters
except what's in front of your face.
This is something I tell myself
so I can try to write poetry.
I don't worry or think about the future,
about how we're going to make it,
about if we're going to make it.
If I do then I slip and wander off,
as I feel myself doing now,
in to fears and concerns
that stop my poetry,
dead in its tracks.

Irony? Or....

While driving the other day
I hit a boy on a bicycle and killed him.
He was an organ donor, and his liver
saved my grandfather's life.

National Security Agency Meeting #34 - Operation Foxhound

"We're gonna give kids this videogame, see,
and they will think they are just shootin' bad guys, right?
But they'll really be shooting living illegal aliens, yea?
They'll be controlling robots that are actually out there, man,
and stopping these people from infesting in to our country.
Immoral? Let me tell you about morals. Hard-working Americans
who's jobs are being stolen by illegal aliens is immoral.
Huh? The homeless? Bums? Whatever man...
the kids won't know any better anyways."

Words like "nigger"

Georgia high schools have rednecks
that have no qualms about saying
words like "nigger."

They don't think about it,
about what it means to say it,
they just want to look cool.

At lunch it might be
"Look at that nigger,"
or "There's another nigger."

Sometimes they say it with hate,
but it's usually just with ignorance.

My friend - he had it coming.
At a job interview with a black manager
he said "Yes sir" and "No sir."

"Sir?", I asked.
What happened to nigger?

Science kind of scares me.
A friend said that some guy,
I think from Princeton,
did some study or paper
explaining how love is a chemical.
How when we fall in love,
a chemical is released,
and makes us feel good.
Then after a while
the chemical wears off,
and we don't feel it
to be as special as it was.

So being me, I stop to think,
about how science kind of scares me.
Could how I love someone,
be affected by... chemicals?
Are my feelings, emotions, all of that,
simply the result of a love drug?
Well, he did say it was from Princeton...
Damn Yankees.

Flying Westward

There's two pilots up front
and several thousand-pound
engines humming on either side,
suspended on wings underneath
the blue and red Delta symbol.
There's lots of reasons
that this plane is in the air.
But I'd like to think
that it's my heart's high spirits,
that keep it floating,
like a dream.

This poem is for all the kids
who pretended they could fly.
For all those who drummed
with carrot sticks at lunch time,
and smoked a large fat pretzel
as if it were a Cuban cigar.
It reaches out those special few
that always had a joke if you asked,
and also those that recognize the air guitar
as an actual instrument of play.
This poem is for the brothers and sisters
that played hangman with hotel pens
on the programs of the Church
on early Sunday mornings.
It's for all those that turned a playroom
in to American Gladiators,
and a vacant basement
in to Legends of the Hidden Temple.
This is for all those kids
who acted like they were actually dead
after being shot with a nerf gun
or Super Soaker Nine Thousand.
This is for all of those carefree kids,
and the adults that still act like them.
This poem is in dedication to those that realize
that life is too short to cry,
so we should laugh, play, and imagine
that anything is possible, especially happiness.

Imagine there's an island
shrouded in a dense forest,
and a castle in the middle
that is hidden and ancient.

A beautiful system of ramparts
that cries of solitude and
with trees that seem to grow
out of the Will of the earth.

You have to row to get there,
trek on horseback up the steep inclines,
and walk on foot through miles of trees,
but the sight of the drawbridge is amazing.

And inside there are not jesters,
or kings, or even jealous serfs.
Only you and I exist in this castle
and while some may call it prison,
shut off from normalized society,
you and I live in pure spirits
knowing heaven couldn't possibly be better.

At one time she loved them,
those little black Oreos.
When I was only five or six
and was done chopping wood,
she'd show me how to dip
them in a glass of milk.
Now I sit next to her bed,
with my son besides me,
holding a package of Oreos,
and wonder if today she knows who I am.

"Oh you two fine men there", she begins,
(Guess it's a bad day again...)
"Are those Oreos you have there?
Let me show you how to dunk them in milk,
I once knew a charming young boy
that I taught the same thing."

---

Proving you can make poems from everyday conversation (one person will know what I'm talking about).

Maybe Tomorrow

Gentle darkness gives me strength
while I fall asleep, to escape
the world that holds me captive.
I close my heart and my emotions,
and sleep a little while
until the dawn awakens my problems.
I'm a little afraid of tomorrow
since I've lost so much from trust,
but I can pray my dreams are of love,
and I'll start living, maybe tomorrow.

Let us go on a midnight walk
and you can teach me French phrases
like "Let us kiss deeply"
and "We have time left before the morning".
We can go back to my place
and I can roleplay as a French,
aristocratic teenager named Franz.
You can be my arranged wife
(the girl I'm told to marry)
and we can pretend all night long
that we're enjoying making love.

My dorm room looks exactly the same
this semester as it did last year.
I can still see the anguish
in the spots I stared at while lying,
on my back, defeated, in my bed.
The desk hasn't changed -
and neither has the spot I'd rest
my forehead against while thinking
of another depressing rhyme to write.
But something this year is different,
whether it's the chairs that lean back,
or that I've simply accepted who I am.
My room this year is no longer painful,
and while memories sometimes haunt me
of the sobs I at one time let out,
they are all easily healed
when you say you love me,
and to have sweet dreams.

Oh to be one of the people of Woodstock,
probably high as a kite
(not metaphorically, mind you, it was the weed)
and carefree, surrounded by love.
Looking back now of course
we give hippies negative connotations,
but not too long ago it was "hip" and "in"
to be one of those tree-hugging potheads.
Woodstock, where everything was free -
most importantly the music,
although the sex probably wasn't bad either.
You could take a hit of acid, LSD,
whatever your choosing really,
and taste colors and see smells.

I don't ask questions
about what people think of me.
I rely on encounters
and first-hand experience.
I use both faith,
and what I already know.
I generally could care less,
if no one liked me at all.
So long as I was loved,
by one.

Family of De La Cruz

I scrub toilets and clean floors all day,
just so my kids can go to school,
and my family has food to eat.
My hiring manager told me
no one else wanted the job.

I come home and smell like chemicals
so I take a shower to get the smell off,
but I'll never get it off my clothes.
I re-heat the meal my wife made my kids,
and then go to their rooms where they sleep,
and kiss each of them on the head.
If it's still only Monday, I'll have to wait
several days until the weekend to be with them.

I go out late to buy some milk,
so the kids can eat their cereal in the morning.
A man tests my 20 dollar bill at the register,
to make sure it isn't counterfeit,
and on the way out the cart attendent calls me a 'Spic.

7:45 in a musty old building.
In Room 20-something,
I learned about jazz.

I don't think I quite understood it,
quite as well as
some.
The syncopation made no sense,
and it all kinda
seemed
like noise.

But the black girl in the front,
who closed her eyes when he put on Coltrane,
and swayed back and forth,
hitting her hand on the desk,
I'm pretty sure it made sense to her.

And that goofy guy
who did modern swing dancing.
We all laughed really hard
when he demonstrated one day.
You could see him after class,
shuffling the boogie back on home.

Even though I didn't get it,
I did manage to smile once or twice.
Usually it was when the professor said:
"If there's any errors on the test,
it's because I made it when I was drunk."

I've only been drawn once before,
(in the nude that is).
It was on a sofa in an airy villa
overlooking the salty shores.
The fan circulated the scent of ocean
and I lay on my side, posing.
She held her drawing utensil loftily
and her eyes screamed with intent.
Several minutes in I saw her smile
and so I asked her what was up.
"Nothing", she proclaimed,
"It's just you aren't quite the same
as when I started."

Are they telling you to turn back?
Waving you down with red flags?
Maybe they know someone better,
or atleast surely better than me.
Who is it that I'm fighting against,
with both politeness and courtesy?
Who's trust is it I have to gain,
if not only yours.

Seize Life

If a moth tries to warm by a flame,
it catches fire and dies.
Another creature within the game,
falling short of its prize.
And man will fall short of his dreams,
but there's always some hope that's left.
And it matters not your team,
for we're all awarded a trophy called death.
Some argue about truths, perhaps who is right,
even wage wars in the name of their views.
However fight too hard and like the moth, you'll ignite,
in to flames you cannot refuse.
So seize the day, or the night, but just do so with care.
For some day we'll all pass on, to a place, or perhaps, nowhere.

Litany

You are the last leaf of Fall to drop,
and the child that picks it up.
You are the yellow glow of streetlamps,
washing the tunnels of roads.

You are both the first and last drops of rain,
but never ever the lightning.
You are opposite of the Siren,
beautiful but rarely heard.

I am all the paths you ignore in a maze,
the obvious circles and dead-ends.
I am a Japanese cookbook,
stuck in a stack of German philosophy.

I am an anonymous donation to St. Jude’s,
but not the cure for cancer.
I am a hidden nuclear silo,
but decrepit and of no use.

You are all the miracles of God,
extending a hand towards me.
You are my start and my end,
the last line of all poetry.

On my computer...

Archived and classified
in a specified,
and glorified,
named folder.

Ranging somewhere from fifty
to sixty. And even though
I've not counted in a while,
I bet you still owe me.

On my computer screen,
beauty and you
dance together,
meant-to-be.

Christmas Without You

The luminaries guide me along
the roads back to my house.
They cannot lead where I wish,
there's simply not enough people.

The needles of the tree
smell a little weaker to me.
I don't even stop my dog
from drinking out of the stand.

And neither hot cocoa nor Christmas carols
can warm me from the cold icy grip
that this Christmas reluctantly holds me in,
like a mother holding a letter from the Army.

My Mouse Named Mister Keats

My friend called me up
to watch his pet boa
devour an innocent mouse
he bought from the store.

I watched it claw the glass
and thought it tragic
to die so soon.
So young and undeserving.

When he got his camera,
I stowed it in my pocket.
He was dismayed when I said,
"He already ate it".

is this enough protection

there exists a sacred temple
that is protected by all sorts of traps
traps that catch cheaters and liars
and label them unforgivable

the path to reach this temple
is filled with peril and requires aruduous work
if one should somehow find their way inside
a slew of morals disguised as soldiers awaits

there is to be no sin within this place
and only one is chosen to be let through
only the one knows exactly what to say
to gain access to the treasure inside

and in the coolest, darkest room
lies a chalice filled with blood
placed upon a pedastal that's safe from all harm
and inside it is where you'll find her heart.

Doubters

they doubt me
maybe it's my capabilities
maybe it's her past
but they don't trust me

perhaps rightly so
since i have proven no worth
i have assuaged no doubts
i'm just another cupid (shooting arrows)

but i have trust in my heart
and determination in my soul
and i offer no safety
to those who stand in the way of my destiny.

The Cat Named Auburn

Upload music at Bolt.


Sara sat playing with Auburn, her favorite (and only) cat. It sat quietly in her lap and she stroked it gently in between the ears on the top of its head. Auburn arched her back and looked up and her, letting out a playful "meow". She was reminiscing of all the times she's spent in this very bean bag, with her cat in her lap, purring and bathing herself. After her heartbreak last year Auburn was there for her when human consolations meant so little. And when she felt self-conscious about how no one asked her to the dance, all it took was a stroke between the ears, and it was as if the cat was saying "It's okay", before burying its head in her lap once more.

It was November, after Thanksgiving and approaching the magical holiday season. Sara arrived home from her first day back at school since the Thanksgiving break. She rushed through the front door and found her mother crying in the kitchen. Before looking for her cat, she asked her mother what was wrong. "It's Auburn", she choked out through tears. "She's gone missing."

---

Eight hours later and Sara and her mother were still searching for Auburn, but the neighbor's had said they hadn't seen her. They put up fliers with her picture on them, but holding the large stack of papers with a large photo of Auburn on them was too much for Sara. Shortly after she started to cry her mother began driving home. If it was any regular pet she could understand how a child must feel. But to Sara Auburn was so much more. She could talk to Auburn with more ease than any of her closest friends. Auburn never judged her or shunned her. She was always willing to hop on Sara's lap, no matter the hour, and give her undivided attention.

That night Sara went to sleep with the image of Auburn, alone, underneath some foreign bushes along the roadside. These thoughts carried with her through her dreams. She awoke when a car in her dreams was barrelling down on a cat similar to Auburn, and was only inches away from impact. She thought briefly that everything that happened yesterday was all just a dream. Any minute now Auburn would curl up beside her in her warm bed and she'd sleep a few more minutes before having her hand licked. No such thing occurred, and she began to cry once more.

The days crept along slowly, with Sara's mother trying everything imaginable to raise her spirits. She constantly made her favorite foods and rented her favorite movies, but nothing seemed to work. Day after day Sara would come home from school and sit in her chair, where she would pretend to be stroking a cat. Her mother was becoming increasingly worried for her emotional health, and thus made additional efforts to find Auburn. With Christmas only a few days away, Sara's mother could think of no better present for Sara than returning Auburn to her. Yet try as she may, she never received any solid leads on the cat.

---

Three days before Christmas Sara was idling her time around the house, with little to no motivation to go out and join in on the Christmas spirit. Her mother was out most of the time trying to find Auburn, unknown to Sara's knowledge. One day she encountered a man in a large, dark blue trench coat. Rather, she accidentally bumped in to him at the local animal shelter. She was there to see if they had any leads on Auburn, which sadly they did not. On her way out, however, she mistakenly bumped in to the man who asked her what she was there for. After explaining the story, the man wished her and Sara the best, and said he would pray that Auburn returned safely. With Christmas only a few days away, Sara's mother prayed each night for that as well.

For Sara the days leading up to Christmas seemed to trek along slowly. She was almost ready for the holiday spirit to be over and done with so she could start the next year and attempt to move on with her life. The loss of Auburn was truly devastating to her, and she was still having enormous troubles overcoming the loss. Her mother was secretly planning to start investigating various counselors she could see in January to help with the loss of Auburn. Their house lacked its usual warmth that it had this time of year, the day before Christmas. Christmas Eve night Sara fell asleep in her chair, the chair that Auburn had accompanied her in countless times long in to the night. When she woke, her mother had to force her to the Christmas Tree in their living room. Sara knew that the thing she wished for most would not be there.

After reluctantly opening all of her presents (and trying her best to pretend she was happy), her mother was starting to prepare breakfast. Just then, the doorbell rang. "On Christmas morning?", the mother pondered. "Go answer it, dear". Sara got up and went to go peek through the small windows they had on either side of the door. She saw a flash of a blue coat and then nothing at all. She opened the door and nearly kicked the basket that lay on the first step of their porch. Inside was a warm blanket and a decorative note with "For Sara" written in cursive. By this time her mother had become too curious to stay inside. "What is it?", she asked. "It's...", Sara began, "It's.....", and she unfolded the blanket.

Inside was a cat that was sleeping soundly and looked just like Auburn. Her mother dropped a plate she was holding and it shattered on the porch. Sara had one hand to her mouth, the other reaching slowly towards the cat. "Is that...what I think it is?", the mother asked. Sara stroked the cat between its ears and it arched its back up, stared at her, and meowed.

"Yes", she said. "It's Auburn", before tears began flowing down her cheeks.

Somewhere

There's a man somewhere right now, begging for his life.
He might be on his knees, or he might be praying to God,
but one thing is certain, and that's he'd rather be somewhere else.
And you, and me, are in that somewhere else. We are safe.

The Poem I Couldn't Write:

It was going to explain
that feeling I get sometimes
deep down
in my stomach

Also why sometimes
I get really quiet,
and why when I snap
out of my trance,
I'm not quite normal.

My brain moves too fast,
sometimes I need to slow it down
to think properly and with care
before my thoughts wander
so randomly aimlessly through
dark abandoned alleyways
that lead to horrific imaginative
places that should only exist
in the mind of a Hitchcock.

It would've explained all of that,
and possibly more,
but I couldn't write it.

This is what I wish I had said to him when he called the last stanza of my poem cliche

He said what I wrote was stock language. All because I used the word love, I think. WELL I'M SO SORRY! I guess I just wanted to write it out the way it felt to me naturally. And that was by holding that person in my arms. No need to call it cliche. Is the word love banned from poetry? So sorry for committing such a sinful act. I guess next time I'll use one of your god damned metaphors. And for the record, I'm not changing the stanza. I'm leaving it the way it fucking is.

Natural Qualities of Human Beings

Perfection lies in wholeness and completion,
not in subtraction and addition.
True beauty exists in the natural,
for things such as the sky need not be bigger.

And the trees have no need to gloat
about the size of their branches
or "how many rings they have".
The young and pure ones have none.

So what of what I think?
I have an opinion just like the other guys.

They like the centerfolds
that come with each new issue.
I like what you see in those photographs
you have taken in the little booths.

Give me passionate eyes,
or smiling lips.
I'd rather have ears that listen,
and a voice that says "I love you".

So going back to nature,
I ask - what is beauty?
It's a growing oak tree,
that ages with nothing but dignity.

Overnight Flight

You see, there were once these two people,
who were separated by a Lone Star and a bunch of casinos.
God knows how many countless miles of highways,
kept them from seeing each other.

It was going to be fantastic,
she was going to surprise him!
She knew he'd never see it coming,
that he'd probably fall over in shock.

She made the plans in secret
and stowed away on a midnight plane.
Only a few more hours,
And with each she was closer to her dear.

She walked down the first floor hall,
to Room 106, and opened the door.
No one was there, but as disappointment settled,
the phone began to rang.

Do I even need to finish this poem?
"I'm standing outside your apartment", he said.
"You're roommate said you went to see me", and they laughed.
They were still thousands of miles away, but felt closer than ever.

I Will Whenever I Feel Like It

Because of procrastination I'm forced to run through this mental marathon called a checklist,
and I just pray to God I haven't forgotten anything.

Red roses - check,
Chocolates, too.
A mushy card I hope makes her cry,
And an "I love you" teddy.

It's only the middle of some random week, in some random October,
but I'd thought I'd let her know she's special,
and give Valentine's Day the finger.

I had a date...

I had a date -
It was like, sometime last July.
Some random weekend,
Something like the 22nd.

I had a couple dates -
All perfect ovals that fit in my palm.
I was planning on something sweet,
Like, feeding them to her, or something.

Yea, I had a date-
But she called me up,
Said she couldn't make it.
And since, I've never had a date.

The Black Church

I remember going to church
just before I was adopted.
Old Ms. Jones would take me Sundays,
and I stood out among the black crowd.

Heads would turn and eyes would roll
but Ms. Jones said in his house, we're all the same.
The Bibles were a bit tattered and torn
and not at all like the ones at the white church.

Wily Mr. Pete would play the organ,
the chords reverberating inside my chest.
The choir would sing as a single voice.
The most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.

Then big old Lady Harris got up on the stand
and with sweat pouring down her face, she sang.
I couldn't understand her it was so loud and vocal,
but I knew it was something powerful.

People were holding their hands in the air
and shaking them like they had a seizure.
Faces contorted as if they were in pain
and several people wailed cries of prayer.

I never went back to the black church again
and I don't think I'd understand it if I did.
The soul cornered in between those walls
isn't something meant for everyone.

Trying to Fail

There's a thing that many shun against,
a feeling not felt, but rather sensed.
To think to try means one might fail,
keeps us in our self-made jail.
It's something you should do, every now and then,
more important than, a daily vitamin.
Go out and try that which you are not skilled,
to acquire the bricks you require - to build.
The process of life is based on one rule,
which ironically so, is not encouraged in school.
Where wrong is wrong, and never right,
do they know E did not equal MC-squared overnight?
Perhaps if they taught us what it means to learn,
we would have no reason to perpetually spurn.
If we never failed, the human race couldn't better,
but rather be reduced, to an alphabet letter.
Instead of giving us an A through F scale,
our schools should be teaching us, instead, how to fail.

Little Girls' Savings

*Ring-a-ling-ling*
The ice cream truck
drives through streets,
and little girls perk.

They slowly look over
at their bright pink piggies,
and question how hard
they'd have to hit it.

It's such a hot, sweltering
summer day,
with the thought of cool
ice cream tempting them.

But they've been saving
those nickels and dimes.
Saving them for oh so long.
*Ring-a-ling-ling*

One little girl goes downstairs
to grab her father's hammer,
but before she pops the piggy
her mother catches her hand.

While the *ring-a-ling* fades away,
she'll be glad in the morning,
when she still has her piggy,
filled with nickels and dimes.

What a shame that their mommies,
can't follow them to college.

What I'm Looking For

When you took me out,
on our first date of many,
there was a moment I knew,
that I'd set you apart from the rest.

It wasn't when you opened doors,
like a perfect gentleman,
or pulled out my chair,
as if I was a princess.

It wasn't when you let me order first,
then offered to pick up the check.
It wasn't even the simple fact
that you gave me your undivided attention.

It was when you noticed the goosebumps
on my arms, as we walked out of the building,
and threw your jacket around me,
as if to say everything would be okay.

KPB

When the sun sets at night
and my thoughts turn to you,
I can't help but smile,
at that universal moon.

If the night sky were clearer,
I'm sure in its reflection
I could see your pupils
glistening with the glow of angels.

What is it about you?
Both nothing in particular,
and everything in the world,
and that's what makes you special.

Someone I feel I can trust,
and a soul I've come to adore.
You don't have to keep guessing,
for didn't you say to put it blunt?

Dear ,

Yes - I'm writing this to you,
because I know you read me regularly.
I now have the attention
of about three to four people.
I wonder if she knows I'm talking to her,
and not the others.

Your intuitions were right,
when you talked to the duckling.
Much like you have ears and eyes,
I do too - and choose to use them.
And I know how you know,
the subject of my writings.

Those five little letters -
My! You are so perceptive...
You really don't miss a beat do you?
Yea, I remember that promise I made,
and it isn't about getting even,
but rather having a blessing crash down
and implant itself in my heart,
where I hope it stays forever.

----

As a P.S., I still hope some nights
that you find a way to smile,
and are able to enjoy your life
to the fullest extent possible.

In a galaxy far away...

I'd like to miss you,
but I'm not allowed.
You see I have this thing now,
something called commitment.

But that's not to say
you will be forgotten.
Much like any good book,
you'll hold a place in me.

By either chance or destiny,
I've found someone more special.

Someone who looks in my eyes,
and says "I love you",
which is something you implied,
but could never do.

Past Me

But at the end of the day,
when you turn off the lights
and are left only with yourself,
everything seems in place.

Other people are out of the picture,
and your worries are put on hold
while this ruthless thing called reality
gives you time to rest your brain.

For a few last brief moments,
you're scared, fearful, apprehensive.
Then sleep steals you away,
and you wake up.

You go throughout the day
being slowly consumed by emotion.
Just before you decide to retire,
it reaches a pinnacle, and then you sleep.

Nothing has ever existed for me
just before I go to bed.
No one to hold, no prayers to give,
no kisses goodnight, and no hope for tomorrow.

no title

Dissipate in to the streams of my memory that have forever flowed and never stopped, much like this run on sentence, that has neither an end, nor a true beginning, but rather just continues to exist like the humans of the world, constantly seeking for dreams and the courage to pursue them, sometimes finding themselves in a moment of joy, but for the most part ending up in stages of futility, which, when reflected upon, help us grow and achieve the objective of a thing called "living", which is comprised of things like love and desire, but ruled for the most part by the need to survive, whether it be by marriage or a job promotion, and often the idea that in the end none of it will matter anyways, for each human, from the Dali Lama to a hillbilly sex offender, will begin a particular minute of their lives where they die, and nothing can stop it, only the questionable prayers to a particular God give us comfort in the thought that it isn't really the end, because we all live our lives, much like you are reading this sentence, realizing that it isn't too long until the end, and you can see it, but you continue to move along until, after a few more commas, there is nothing left to read, and no life left to live.

My Blue Blazer

There's a couple things she taught me,
such as to not promise it will all be alright.
The only promise I make now,
is that I'm just me - and that's all I'll ever be.
If that can help you, then great,
but if it can't, I can't help you.
I'm not going to change outfits
to play the part of every occasion.
I have one old, blue blazer
and that's the one I'll always wear.
But if it means anything,
I've had that blazer my entire life,
and have never needed it sewn.

"Sometimes, honey, mommies and daddies choose not to live together anymore..."

It was one of those lies
that had an underlying meaning
hidden within it
(those hurt the most).

You said you were gonna lie down,
"To think about some things".
But we both know what you meant,
didn't we?

It could be anything.
Why you had vows,
why you had children.
Please don't make me guess.

If you can't talk to me,
then atleast leave a post-it
on the kitchen table,
before you leave us.

Me Being Me

Giving everything I have,
it never seems like enough.
I always seem to fall short,
lacking some sort of final push.

One step from perfect,
and thus wholly ruined.
Not quite where I want to be,
always one word away.

So tantalizingly close,
before my dreams shatter.
Shatter like tears of glass
cutting the skin on my cheeks.

I despairingly try my best,
yet am never quite good enough.
I do my best to be myself,
but it's never worked in my favor.

Come...

If this is a dream I don't want to ever wake up.
I'm so deeply in love and feel so lucky
but at the same time feel sorry for others.
I'm sorry they'll never be this happy.

I hope I'm good enough. I hope I have enough to sacrifice,
because I would give everything for you.
This overflowing love pumping through my veins
has broken the record for the largest estuary system
in the almanac of my heart.


That loving touch has released some sort of chemical
that gives me a high no drug can match,
but sadly I still suffer withdrawal when you're away.
I never want you to leave my side, I want to hold you forever.

Stay close and be with me
and I'll make sure you're always happy.

Apartment Darko

I'm sitting in my broken down apartment
on my bed without any sheets
and with a floppy piece of shit I call a pillow.

I turned all the lights in my room off
but the streetlamps below mix together
with the sound of prostitutes,
and make it harder for me to go to sleep.

I close my eyes and think about the world.
I hear police sirens wailing a few blocks away,
a bedtime sound I've lived with for years now.

I wonder if someone's died, who it was, and why.
That sound is like a wave, going up - back down,
and up - and back down, over and over,
night after night after night.

The faint hum of the overhead fan
that only has one speed - slow,
perpetually drones me in to a sleep.

There I'll dream of things that I hope aren't dying.
I don't want the streetlamps shining in my face,
and I don't want the sound of sirens in my head.

Picnic

This lazy August afternoon offers us its grace,
filling the air beneath the large oak tree with warmth,
and permitting the birds to sing while we eat.

The blanket is cushioned by the grass,
and warm and cozy to the touch.
Out of courtesy for our privacy the ants leave us alone,
and the bumblebees find elsewhere to buzz.

Clouds scoot across that amazing color of blue,
and a light wind acts as a kiss from Mother Nature.
The smell of the flora reaches my nose,
and I close my eyes, thinking it must be heaven.

God has created the opportunity for all of these things to exist,
all of these beautiful, wonderful things.
But I think his best work of art to date,
is sitting right here on the blanket with me.

I am Stephen, hear me rawr~

From the darkest reaches
of the most mystical caverns
with the most gruesome beasts
and fearsome foes,
hear me rawr.

Hear that desparate cry,
part anguish, part ruthless,
echoing in your head
and reverberating
through your heart,
hear me rawr.

Take heed to my shout
and see my words that scream,
like that of a lion's
marking the Savanna territory,
except mine are on paper.
Hear me rawr.

Agendas

The old man walked over to the same old bench,
in the same old park, with his same old newspaper.
He sat down, the sun as his lightbulb, the grass his ottoman,
and began to read about the world, and see who had died.

He heard a young man, he guessed in his twenties,
yelling throughout the park at the top of his lungs.
Something about Republicans, and a political agenda.
The old man simply continued to read his paper.

The young man searched for prey and saw the old man,
and with his eyes narrowing in sight of him, he advanced.
"Sir, have you heard about the upcoming election, or taken..."
The old man went on looking up old friends in the obituaries.

When the man was finally done with his tirade, he added,
"So, how about it then? Would you like to register and vote Republican?"
The old man's eyes were reduced to slits and he let out a heavy sigh.
He looked up, and said:

"I'm sorry, young man, were you saying something?"

What Love Does

Things change when you're in love.
Kisses become wake-up calls,
smiles become permanent,
and naps are taken when you aren't even tired.

Your once stoic phone gets a work out,
and your e-mail inbox is a little more full.
Away messages change to "missing you",
and the sun shines a little brighter.

The eyes see things differently,
looking through the scope called love.
You can't help but follow your heart,
to that bed where your lover lies.

Eternity gets positive connotations,
while holding them in your arms.
Love is how two people are happy,
even while asleep and unconscious.

The clock hands can't move fast enough,
when you're separated from them.
The moon couldn't hang higher, nor shine brighter,
when they're as close as they can be.

Yes Elton, I can feel the love tonight,

And that twisting kaleidoscope
has become so much clearer.
A confusing mix of colored prisms
has become a face I've come to love.

I'm no king, certainly no vagabond,
But good luck telling her that.
(Apparently I'm "the best").

But my wide eyes are not from
exploration or adventure.
They were opened to the truth,
from where the westerly wind blows.

And just like you said Elton,
my heart beats along with hers.
Star-crossed and in a dream,
I can feel the love tonight.

---


http://www.lionking.org/lyrics/OMPS/CanYouFeel-EJ.html

I Picked a Flower Today...

I picked a flower today.
It had two stems that jutted out
from the main stalk.
And on the tips of those stems
was leafy foliage that tickled my face.
Its petals were deliciously tantalizing,
however I don't eat flowers.
To bumble bees and hummingbirds,
this flower must have been Paradise,
a dream they longed to reach.
It had two roots that dug themselves
firmly in to the ground next to me.
It was screaming for me to pick it,
practically begging for it.
And although I knew at that moment,
that picking it would alter it forever,
I decided to anyways.
Ever since then I've taken care of the flower,
since it was my choice to pick it.

Nuh-uh

There's one thing about you I lightly deplore -
For my heart can't stretch to say abhor -
Arguing my case each day, I implore -
That you'll come to your senses for sure.
For no matter the amount I to you adore,
You will never, my darling, love me more.

You're Beautiful

In my honor tonight,
I hold a celebration.
With you as my guest,
We'll thrive in pure elation.

Take me by the hand,
Swing me all around.
The love runs so thick,
I'm scared that I might drown.

This night's the same for us both,
A moment long overdue.
With a dream before our eyes,
We can't help but pursue.

My heart beats faster,
My jaw hits the floor.
It's so refreshing to have,
What I've never had before.

I make a toast to you:
I'll never cheat or lie.
I'll never see you hurt,
Atleast until I die.

Thinking

Wake up, and think.
Take a shower, while thinking.
Get dressed, still thinking.
Brush my teeth, also thinking.

Barely make it to my 9AM class,
only to think there, too.
A couple of hours become an eternity,
when all I can do is think.

What am I thinking about?
Oh - I don't know.
(And did you think I'd tell you anyways?
It's so much fun to tease).

Poem at 3:50 AM

Ok here I go. I'm not going to think, or else I'll never get started if I do.

How many ways are there to write it?
Probably something like a thousand.
And equally as many ways to say it,
although I usually just use that one.

I could say the words I always say,
Special, Great, Awesome, Sweet.
Or I could say them all at once,
by saying that one I usually use.

You know what it means, though.
That I wish to be with you,
to eat with you, to sleep with you.
I'd like to think fulfillment is pending.

All of what I feel for you is summed up,
With utter brilliance. Who understands best?
You do, which is why you'll know right away,
after adding a forward slash in front of it all.

Prose on 10/6/2006

This isn't really a poem. Well, I suppose if you were to ask Allen Ginsberg, Walt Whitman, or any number of their followers, they would all say otherwise.
The textbooks define it as prose poetry. So I can write whatever I want here, and I've already spent some of that space explaining what this is.
With that out of the way, let me say what's on my mind today. (Love is).
People should know I write about what's going on in my life. Last February sure didn't seem like it was very fun, did it?
Well, my recent entries are about somebody. (They don't live in the South).
I kind of thought you'd figure it out, and maybe you have. Or maybe you haven't. Either way -
I do love this person. And it's different from before. (Oh so different).
So if I've written alot about love lately, I wonder what that could mean?
Yes - what could it mean indeed...

The Lioness

You do not seduce the savanna lioness.
You admire her from afar,
until she says it's okay,
then you proceed carefully.

You do not indulge yourself by touching her.
You slowly place one hand on her back,
until she is comfortable with your touch,
and then you stroke her gently.

You do not brag about her to your friends.
You get to know her as best you can,
until you've come to respect her,
and then she can brag for herself.

You do not love her, and leave her.
You realize in the beginning it will last,
until the inevitable, heartfelt end,
else you do not love her to begin with.

You do not weaken in your feelings for her.
You feel more passionate for her every day,
until you know that you've found it,
and then you'll have extreme happiness.

(In case you didn't know,
it was never even about,
the savanna lioness.
I love you.)

Underneath the Gown

I wonder if you are the one,
And if our love draws nigh.
It must be true, it must be true,
Which I'll now tell you why:

Whenever things turn for the worse,
I know you're there for me.
My happiness, a treasure that,
You always gaurantee.

Though rain and storms and wild winds,
You'd fight for me so brave.
I bet you'd fight until you died,
And fight more in your grave.

You make me happy to live life,
Help make my dreams come true.
Which is why I stand with fervor,
And, say those words "I do".

And Then There's You

There's not an abundance of things
that make me very happy.
There's my poetry, some songs,
and you.

There's not a whole lot of people
that I use to confide in.
There's my family, my dog,
and you.

There's but only a special few
that I think that I can trust.
There's my best friend, my sister,
and you.

There's probably just a handful
that I would give my life for.
There's Sharon (cancer killed her),
and you.

But there's only two that exist,
that I say I truly love.
There's me, and myself, and I,
and you.

Proof

I told you I was going to eat,
and then I left. The night air
was extremely cool
and I unfortunately had only a shirt.

It was an enjoyable cool however,
if not slightly foreboding.
Instead of turning back,
I decided to face fate that night.

I walked down to the Taco Bell
while listening to Hikaru.
Her soothing Japanese voice
was warning me to go back.

The lights of the parking garage,
behind where I lived, were like
bright warning lights.
But I didn't notice until later.

I ordered a chicken quesadilla,
even though the last one made me sick.
I was given order #13.
Then I got my food and left.

On the way back I noticed
that there were no stars in the sky.
Thinking it odd, I stopped,
and before I knew it, there he was.

He told me to freeze,
then held a gun to my chest.
He said to give him my wallet,
so I raised my fists to fight.

He insisted he would shoot me,
but hadn't done so thus far.
I thought of you for a moment.
About how sad you'd be if I died.

It was odd - that little moment.
Part of me wanted to die,
just to see if you'd miss me -
just to see if you really loved me.

Well, I do really love you,
so I did as he said.
I reached in my back pocket,
to grab my wallet in surrender.

I put out my hand,
and punched him straight in the jaw.
Walking back I smiled and thought,
about how hard you were going to hit me
when you found out what I did.
All because you really love me.

Dream Before A Dream

Even though you don't like it,
I still enjoy kissing the pearls
of sweat that form on you
while we work out together.

You lean over and ask,
if I'm ready to stop.
But I'm out of breath,
so I just keep going.

A while ago you told me,
that you weren't quite ready yet.
And so I waited for months,
just so you wouldn't fret.

Now it's never pressured,
something that comes and goes.
We don't have to say a word,
speaking with knees and elbows.

My favorite part of it all
is when you're lying on my chest,
breathing deeply in and out
as we soundly sleep and rest.

Glomp!

I'm sitting on the edge of our bed,
and you're sitting in a chair.
With the television droning,
you look at the ground and stare.

It's coming. You feel it,
and I feel it too.
It's coming. Tension.
Our hearts pump faster.

You crack a smile -
like a track pistol.
I begin to dart full speed
straight towards you.

You manage to turn half-way
before being smothered
by my arms, as they wrap
delicately around your body.

That is what I love,
That is love.
Glomp.

I close my eyes...

And there she is.
In an oversized blue sweater
with her unpainted fingertips
barely peeking through the sleeves.

Her movements are very quick
to get her ponytail tied,
and done with perfection
from nothing but memory.

There isn't a single flashy thing,
not even a pair of earrings.
There's not a dab of makeup,
just beautiful, wholesome skin.

She motions me over
and I realized then,
that she was mine -
and screamed of beauty.

Butterfly Sestina

It's not the first time I've been all alone.
Nor is it the first that I've missed you,
and the moments we spent together.
I spend this lonely day inside
watching over a single butterfly,
floating around outside in the air that's so cold.

I wonder if the butterfly is cold
from the weather, or from being alone.
How I wish to embrace the solemn butterfly,
and clutch it tight as if it were you.
It would be warm by the fire inside,
and at last we could be together.

My mind churns as my hands rub together
to keep my blood from getting cold.
I try to forget the feelings inside
that make me feel so alone.
I glance towards a portrait of you,
my last remnant, before going back to the butterfly

sitting on the window. Suddenly, the butterfly
is joined by a friend, and they sat there together.
I look a little more at the butterfly, then the visage of you,
and suddenly I don't feel so cold.
Perhaps, like the butterfly, I'm not really all alone.
Perhaps there's a piece of you still inside

of this room. Your smile emanates inside
my living room as I notice the butterfly
is now here with me. No longer alone,
I smile as we sit by the fire together
and let the warmth of love thaw the cold
thoughts that once surrounded my memory of you.

Now when my thoughts turn to you
I do not weep, but look inside
of my heart, where sweet, cold
pearls of memory blossom like premature butterflies.
I know we may no longer be together,
but that does not mean that I'm alone.

It isn't a bad feeling having those butterflies
fluttering around on the inside.
It reminds me that I'm not alone.

Things Go Bump In The Night

It's way too late
for me to be writing this.
There's no stopping
of my thoughts and feelings.

Here they come,
pouring out of me.
I would just as soon
hand you my diary.

What's on my mind
tonight?
What is it that you all
seem to want to hear?

The secrets, the love,
the betrayals, the drama.
Oh - it's happening,
I assure you.

And under no other circumstances,
would I ever dare tell you.
Even now I'm out of my right mind,
perhaps possessing a different one.

So what of my love?
Are you really one to judge?
I'll continue doing it,
because it makes me feel good.

What a sensational feeling it is
to know you aren't alone.
Sometimes all it takes
is bumping in to someone,
in the same darkness
that you are trapped in.

For The Best?

I want to apologize
for lying to you.
My insides are on fire
from breaking your trust.
Tears fill your eyes
and intensity rises.
You look at me like that,
like it's unbelievable.
We're simply too far apart
for this dream to come true.
We live in two separate worlds
that not even love can combine.
I hold you in my arms
and say 'Sorry' over and over.
If only I was born
in a different time and place.

I would have never had to say
that I didn't love you,
even though I do.

Sorry, But I Can't Help It

"Scoot over a little", she said,
"I'm smaller than you."
"That's all right", I replied,
"You can stretch out."

The crack in our window
which we've never had fixed,
allowed the cold winter air
to creep across our sheets.

I lend her most of my blanket
and her chest heaved a sigh.
"It's getting cold", she said,
"I'm fine, take some of mine."

So I took half of her blanket,
on top of all of mine.
At the sound of her sleeping breath
and the feeling of her shivering,
I wrapped both blankets around her,
and kissed her on the forehead.

Forced Emotion

It hurts me to see you
love that man. That man
I call a friend, and
who I could never betray.

If it was any other man,
I would take you far away.
My secret love for you
is growing by the day.

Friendship and love - Oh,
how complicated it's become.
To fulfill my heart's desire
I would have to stab a friend.

So incredibly difficult it is
to call you a simple friend.
I want it to be much more.
I want you to love me too.

I'll follow you wherever,
even if you're with him,
because I cannot help
but love you dearly.
I want you to love me too.

満月をさがして

Upload music at Bolt.


I was awake all last night
watching you sleep silently.
That was the last chance I'd get
before you left me forever.

The next day you said to me
that it wasn't goodbye at all.
But the waver of your voice,
and tears, said otherwise.

I have never cried as hard
as the day you left my life.
I know you cannot help,
where your adopting family lives.

I've found a family too since then,
but my feelings haven't changed.
I still remember your words
just before boarding the bus.

You held me in your arms,
soaked with the sorrow of my sobs,
and told me you loved me,
to which I had no reply.

From the moment the bus vanished
in to the infinite horizon and beyond,
I knew what it was I felt.
I loved you more than ever.

I've been desparately searching since,
so I can tell you what it is I feel.
If love was meant to exist
I know you will be waiting.

You not only filled the void
that fate stripped from my life.
You gave me hope, and love,
and courage to go on living.

Late at night, you used to point
towards the moon in the sky.
"We'll never be far from each other"
you said, as I gazed with all my heart.

To this day the only sight
that seems to soothe my soul,
is a full moon hanging in the sky,
and the hope you see it too,
and are thinking of me.

There's Nothing Else Quite Like...

When you're sitting warm and cozy
while rain beats down outside,
everything takes on a special glow
while the pitter-patter of water,
juxtaposes your calmness within.

How about while it is so cold
that a bear could freeze,
you lie snugly in your bed
with a fleece blanket wrapped
around you while you doze.

Remember those times when
you'd cry so hard? And,
do you remember the friend
whose shoulder you drenched?
There's nothing else quite like it.

Nothing at all can compare
to the sensation of holding
that special lover in your arms.
There's nothing else quite like it,
and there never has been.

Read You Like A Book

We sat in the same loveseat,
reading the same book,
about the same romance,
to the sound of a storm.

I admit that a few times,
I was reading you,
and not the book.
Please forgive me.

It was getting chilly,
and you leaned in to say,
it was my turn to get blankets,
and make the hot chocolate.

I left that warm loveseat,
and departed to our freezing kitchen.
I shivered as I made our drinks,
wishing I was back reading you.

Returning I saw you sitting,
covered by half of a blanket.
It wasn't the drink, or the blanket,
that warmed me in that moment.

It was when you glanced up,
and smiled.

I Woke Up Late

Monday morning - moody,
arising already annoyed.
Blurred, blaring broody,
diurnal doings destroyed.

Planned precursor perhaps -
Goofy God's game.
Cloudy conscience collapse,
Dearly dreaming dame.

Nothing, no noise,
Lazily lying - late.
Thoughts turn to toys,
Darting dreams deflate.

Going, going, gone,
feelings fading forever.
Yes - you yawn,
silent sentiments sever.

No, it's because I love you

I delicately form a cocoon,
with my arms,
around your body.
Is it because you're sad?

I gently rake your hair,
with my fingers,
so I can see your face.
Is it because you're sick?

I form a roguish grin,
with my mouth,
when you try to hide.
Is it because you're self-conscious?

I hold on to your waist,
with my hand,
until you're used to my touch.
Is it because you're passive?

No, it isn't anything like that,
and it never will be.

Jihad

He bides his time at the bus stop,
the one he's always used.
He looks around but when,
he doesn't seem them, he boards.

He goes to the middle,
where he always sits.
He greets his neighbor's child,
who is only ten years old.

He listens in to the driver's
funny jokes of the day.
They are the exact same ones,
he laughed to as a kid.

The bus stumbles along,
already on its final breath.
It turns down familiar roads,
the man has known all his life.

At a junction it passes a bus,
with even more people inside.
Explosion, fire, screams, death,
and possibly, for one, paradise.

Pending

This is all I have tonight,
the words on this page.
I'm alone in my own world,
as a good poet should be.

I write out all my problems,
hoping to feel better after.
'Tis still bittersweet, however,
I open my eyes and nothing's changed.

But just for tonight I wish,
I didn't have to write.
I wish that just for tonight,
my therapy was spoken aloud.

"Trust us."

She's flying so high in to the air,
free like a bird, high as a kite.
Something called an arabesque,
as the crowd ooh's and aah's.

Her arms begin to flail,
and her eyes widen.
She realizes on the way down,
no one will catch her.

She crashes on the asphalt,
breaking both hip joints.
Her legs flop around like jelly,
having lost their support.

Favorite to Forgotten

It's her favorite toy,
with those pliable legs,
and bendable arms.

She can style the hair,
in any fashion she desires,
only to get it messed up in bed.

Pulling on the invisible string,
she makes the toy say things,
like "I love you."

Like all the toys she has,
it goes on the shelf when she's through,
which is where I sit - collecting dust.

Get Back On?

I try to cope with all my problems,
and I assure you - I have lots,
by a phrase my momma used to say,
"You got to get back on the horse."

Well, my pants sure are dirty now,
stained with the mud of my failures.
But I know momma will wash them,
until they aren't dirty anymore.

There's nothing to ride now,
so what about what momma said?
And no one to wash my dirty clothes,
since momma and the horse are dead.

"Giddy-up! Giddy-up!", I yell,
to the motionless heap of carcass.
I guess since he doesn't budge,
It's time I learn to walk on my own.

My Roommate and I

It was so late, and so dark,
the night I became a rapist.
I sodomized his inspiration,
with noise, as my phallus.
He did not shed any tears then,
but his soul wept.

Committing an unforgivable sin,
I'm sure to him, I became a demon.
I persisted so very ignorantly,
until, abused, he submitted defeat.
There perhaps subsists a society of poets,
that would have me put to death.

That night it was as if I tore,
the stanzas straight from his heart.
He cries now, saying he could have created,
the most remarkable Full Moon.
Said he, "It would have evoked beautiful tears,
to passionate eyes."

Why Am I So Sad?

I don't know why I am so sad about the death of my friend in May. I hadn't contacted her in months, didn't know anything personal about her, and never even talked to her over the phone. Yet I am so sad. I feel as though my best friend has been taken away from me, yet she was nothing of the sort. She was simply a friend, a good friend. Sorrow is to be expected to be attached to such a relationship, but certainly not that which I am feeling. I feel as though a part of myself has died. As if a friend that once existed in my world, a piece of love that once filled my heart, has now been taken away.

I suppose this and more is what I have been trying to say with all my poems as of late. It's hard to explain, but I guess I can give the best example I know of. Do you have a friend who had a terrible accident on a certain road and lost someone close to them, and now they refuse to ever drive down that road again? That scenario has more or less happened to me, except it isn't just one road I can't go down, it's an entire world. Every corner I turn is another memory of us. These are memories I thought I had long since forgotten. It is quite queer how one can remember things when they are under emotional distress.

As I continue to go out in to this world, and continue to drive down that fateful road that so many people avoid, I am saddened each day. She is the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and always the last thing when I go to bed. I never loved her as anything more than a friend, but I can't help but ask myself when these memories and thoughts of her will dwindle - even if ever so slightly. Some temporary relief is all I ask for. Some moments of my day where I am not thinking about how she is gone. I do not have such a power over my mind to force myself not to think about those types of things. It does what it wants to, and I am its victim.
I will close this with something I wrote to Sharon in January of this year, on this blog. It is titled in code, which was originally a secret as to the recipient of this piece. Due to her passing, however, I will reveal the actual title of this prose. It is called: "Dear Fellow Watcher"

Mystery is probably the first word that comes to mind, but that is most likely only because you interest me. I rarely am unable to grasp an object I am compelled towards, and thus am baffled by your nature. An aura of mystique completely shrouds you, and hides any real clues as to what you truly want the most. There is wisdom in your years, as there are in mine. Believe it or not, in a way you are quite intimidating. Failure to produce anything that doesn't come truly from my heart in your presence afterwards leads me to guilt. I've no idea about those normal aspects of your life, but I do not need them to know who you are. It would be absolutely worthless for me to wish for your happiness, because you don't need me to. Such is the confidence I have in your ability to always fight the right battles, with your own moral strategies. You have been a good friend at times when there was no one else. You have seen me at my rock-bottom, yet did not save me, because you knew it would make me stronger. You instead encouraged me, and in the end, I am forever grateful.

Again, this is something I wrote in January to her (it is on this blog), and I asked her to read it, but do not know if she did. When I say she didn't save me - I lied. She did, by letting me find my own strength through encouragement and understanding.

Nostalgic Music Tortures Me

I can't really help it,
I'm an obsessor.
One who obsesses,
If there is such a thing.

I hear a song and remember,
She mentioned that band.
Then recall where I've ever been,
When listening to that song.

Then out of nowhere,
Is the urge to hear it with her.
Not that I ever have,
Or ever had plans to.

Yet I'm fancied by the idea,
Of spending time with her now.
Not like I could have anyway,
Even if she was alive.

Like I said,
I'm an obsessor - if there is such a thing.
I wonder how long I'll obsesses,
This time.

Ghosts of the Heart

For me the coping was hard,
But for him - a nightmare.
I was ignorant for months,
He probably knew right away.
My tears are but sprinkles,
Compared to his emotional storm.
The love we lost was different,
Which is perhaps why...

He went by himself,
To that grave where they lay.
The etched granite of stone,
Displaying a world in memories.
Maddening his love was,
So much so he wanted to stay.
To always be there with her,
The two pains were incomparable.

Just inches from death,
A rustling from a tree.
Withered with no leaves,
And solitary - lonely.
He saw her by that tree,
And she begged him to stop.
She promised him there,
That they would meet again.

He goes back to the dead tree,
Where he swears he saw her.
No one will believe him,
But the other day - I saw.
By the tree sitting, with a smile,
He was talking to the air.
And there's only one person I know,
Who could ever make him smile like that.

No Farewell Is Final When I Think of You

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You can say she is dead.
You can say she passed away.
You can say she's no longer with us.
They all mean the same thing.

You can say she's in a better place.
You can say she lived a good life.
You can say she's watching over me.
They all mean the same thing.

You can say that you're sorry.
You can say that it's a shame.
You can say that it's natural.
But they all mean the same thing.

You know what I say?
Or what I hope I can say soon?
That she isn't dead.
She isn't gone.
She isn't even necessarily in a better place.
She is no longer breathing, I admit,
But her presence is still felt,
Within the confines of my heart.
And that will have to be good enough for me.

Short Blues

Oh, how I love to go to the market, to see her once again.
Oh, how I love to go to the market, to see her once again.
She smells of angels an' roses, and I of tobacco an' gin.

So I wake up early an' go to the store, every Sunday 'bout seven.
So I wake up early an' go to the store, every Sunday 'bout seven.
Most people goin' to church 'round then, but I go to the market for heaven.

---

You have to sing it out loud like a blues song or else it just won't work...
I will explain this one later after everyone has a chance to try and get meaning out of it.

One Mistake

One mistake,
Changed my life.
Caused me pain,
Endured by myself.
One mistake,
Made me lower than low.
Shattered what they call,
A positive self image.
One mistake,
Is all it took,
To take away,
All I've ever wanted.
A simple mistake,
Such a silly thing really,
How easy it would have been,
To simply call you back.

Paralyzed

So many memories can arise,
From a small piece of quiet and a breeze.
As I stop to wonder,
Why they all make me sad.
Is it that they themselves are sad?
Or that my perspective is so?
A past filled far past full,
With "could-have-beens" and such,
I cannot help but think,
My life is not as good as it could be.
If only I had taken,
Some other road,
Perhaps the one not taken,
As one man put it.
And yet, it seems so queer,
For one would think,
That following one's dreams,
Would lead to their fruition.
Perhaps I was simply never taught,
How to correctly - and whole-heartedly,
Follow my dreams.

Eight Months?!

The world wasn't meant for "My Way",
It was meant for theirs.
Eight months, he said,
Does it really take eight months?

Does it really take eight months,
To create,
What I can do,
In fifteen minutes?

For in reality,
The majority,
Will never ever,
Tell the difference.

In Prison They Call it a "Cellie"

You demonic abomination from Hell,
Wreaking havoc to and fro.
Spreading your wings of black sheath,
Laid out for all to see.

I had such a perfect plan,
Such a beautiful idea in mind.
And you came and destroyed it,
With the roaring fires of the underworld.

Oh, how gorgeous that Full Moon would've been,
If only I had the chance to create it.
It would have evoked tears to passionate eyes,
Yet you could not just let me be.

Yes, you horrifying creation,
Of otherworldly descent.
Ye shall never know that for one night,
You were a devil in my mind.
For destroying such a beautiful thing,
That would have evoked tears to passionate eyes.

Et Puis...Après...Calme...Dans La Mort

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...with tears acting as the storm,
The calm proceeded to follow.

...with sorrow acting as the winds,
The reparations will begin.

...with memories acting as the weather,
The continuous cycle - continues.

I Wonder

I wonder if at some other time,
We could have shared a meal.
With laughs and smiles and living,
None of which happens now.

I wonder if at some other time,
There was a move I should've made.
Something to make it a little better,
But now can no longer do.

I wonder if at some other time,
I should've said "you're a loving friend."
It might have ignited warmth in your heart,
Now it no longer will.

I wonder if at some other time,
You were really holding back.
So that this moment in time I have,
Would not cause tears to fall.

I wonder if at some other time,
This time - in the future.
I will look back to you with love,
And thank you for changing me.

Regretful Remembrance

The day of,
Is simply shock.
And the ticking,
Of your clock.*

The day after,
Is pain.
And feelings,
Unexplained.**

After that,
Who knows?
Likely the same,
I suppose.***

Never a day from hence shall pass,
Their name will not cross your breath.
Placed in the far reaches of your heart,
Is lodged the memory of their death.***

---------

*This is a poem about having someone close to you die. On the day of, you are in shock so you don't really feel sadness too much (atleast I didn't). You are trying to figure out how to go on with your life without this person. You are trying to imagine your life without them being a part of it. Then you wonder when you are going to cry (the ticking of the clock), and have all of your emotions burst out. You question your own mortality and life's worth, and wonder if you've been getting all there is to get out of life. This ticking of your heart (the same as the clock) symbolizes your sorrow and compassion, but also your realization of the importance of living life.

**The day after you will most likely allow the emotions to overwhelm you. This day is pure pain for most. You wake up and likely the first thing to cross your mind will be that you are waking up in a world without that person in it. They are no longer here, and coming to terms with that notion is difficult. You cannot explain exactly how you feel, since there are so many things and emotions being mixed in with one another. You want to move on, but are still held back. You want to remember them, but it causes you pain.

***I don't know what happens after the first day, because that day has yet to come. Yet if I were to guess, I would assume not a day will go by where I don't think of them. Until the very day I die something about the world I live in will remind me of who they were, and how we shared our lives. I "suppose" that these days will also cause my heart to sag with heaviness as I recall how delicate their life was. I regret admitting I cannot let it go, and yet at the same time am glad I will never forget them. This mix of emotions leads me to the assumption that I will always be torn in matters of death. On one side, sad I remember them. On the other, happy they were such an influential person in my life to make me have such strong emotions.

So This Is What It's Like

So this is what it's like,
To lose a person evermore.
Like saying good-bye to childhood,
She will be here, nevermore.

Yet even the dead can teach,
Such as how to appreciate.
They preach how life is short,
And should not depreciate.

It's ironically funny how,
She already saved me once.
And - like Jesus - she comes back,
Saving the fool who jumps.

Scooping me up in her wings,
As one of the last of my friends.
Before disappearing amidst tears,
Swirling with the winds.

It's easy now to understand,
The belief in life after we die.
The heart is just too strong,
To admit to saying good-bye.

Likewise I now see how,
God speaks to people every day.
One must learn to love their life,
For in an instant it could go away.

Watcher

For the first time in my life a friend close to me has died. I didn't know her name until after she died, but she helped me through many hard periods of my life. I know she was around my age, and one of the most caring and helpful people in the world. I knew that she was sick, but I never knew it would end her life.

No matter who you were, or what you needed help with, she would help you. So many people knew her by this attitude of hers. She never did anything that only benefitted herself. She put her trust in to people only to be betrayed countless times, but continued giving her trust, and never stopped. We talked about many things, and she helped me with many things. She told me she was sick. I thought she was taking medicine, and that it would all be ok.

For a couple of months I didn't talk to her, and then I see a message about RIP and two dates. I thought that it might be her, but I didn't know. Earlier tonight I found out it was. I wonder if I'm going to cry. Then I wonder when. Or for how long.

I'll probably help a few people out for her sake. Continue her Mother Teresa-esque work in the world that we lived in. Maybe one day, someone will ask me why I help people so much. And I can tell them, "For her sake".

I still don't know if heaven exists. But if it does, I know she's there.

There is no other place for angels to be.

You've shown me how great a human life can be, and for that I will try to cherish mine.

Rest in peace Sharon.

Gravity

Solemn and wet hand's palms,
Cover eyes with all their might.
Desparate fingers reaching out,
Clutching hair and holding tight.

Two sullen and downtrodden arms,
Want something new to squeeze.
They've been perpetually wrapped,
Around two all-familiar knees.

The only company in bed,
Is the coldness of the sheets.
Holding things like pillows close,
Knowing they cannot give off heat.

Before the point of crying,
There's a giant, screeching halt.
Realizing Fate is no enemy,
But that it's your own fault.

Until you change - you'll clutch hairs,
Hug knees, hold pillows, and moan.
You'd like to laugh - but would it matter?
You know you'd be laughing alone.

They Want Out

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There's nothing to worry about,
Really...

Word Stairs

The,
Simplicity of,
A short poem is,
That it builds upon itself.

Like,
Stairs that lead,
Upward toward some height,
That you never imagined existed.

People,
Also build,
Their lives in steps,
To cope with harsh reality.

Perhaps,
It would be best,
For me to be happy more,
Even if deep inside, I feel very sad.

Maybe,
Just maybe,
I will convince myself,
That the sad reality, is not real.

Then,
I can be,
A bit happier,
For a little while.

Sunday Morning

Buttoned-up with a pair of slacks,
With a stain you can't remember.
Probably because they aren't yours,
But a man's who left them last September.

The pews are divided as equally,
As the soothing atmosphere.
So magnificent is that Cross,
You didn't notice your neighbor's sneer.

The colored stain-glassed windows shine,
Upon the altar gorgeous and grand.
And yet some whites sit in the front rows,
To avoid shaking a black hand.

The sermon is captivating and rich,
God nearly flows straight through your veins.
You would never stop to think,
Corruption would exist in his domain.

Confession arrives at last,
The longest part of the day.
Because man will always sin,
No matter how hard that we pray.

So Much Depends

so much depends
upon

the note i wrote
to you

so you know
why

i am no longer
here

From William Carlos Williams' The Red Wheelbarrow:

so much depends
upon

the red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

Look it up to understand both poems.

MySpace Whores

I dunno if it's just me, but these chicks are getting annoying.

You've heard of this phenomena,
At some time or other, I'm sure.
Quietly logging in to your e-mail,
To be assaulted by MySpace whores.

With ingeniously titled names,
Like "Sexy2hottie" and "ImavirginNOT".
With some picture of a girl,
And a description, "I'm so hot".

Here's just a little notice,
To all the MySpace whores.
I don't even ****ing know you,
And denying you becomes a chore.

I don't care if my friend list,
Fails to hit two thousand-plus.
Because the few I've listed,
Are the ones I think I trust.

I know that you are fake,
Probably advertising for some site.
Which is why time and time again,
I will decline your friend invite.

SHOUT IT!!!

I could write it on the walls,
Of caves with beasts I fear.
Or climb a trecherous slope,
And sing it loud and clear.

I could put it in a bottle,
And send it out to sea.
Or go back to my hometown,
And carve it in a tree.

I could put it on the net,
Some obscure online profile.
Or simply contact you directly,
With a number I'm scared to dial.

But of all the things I can do,
I think this one's the best.
Poems shout out words I fail to speak,
Shout out over all the rest.

Mystery Butterfly

Such a beautiful butterfly,
Sitting all alone.
I recall her passivity,
And the way her hair shone.

Why is such a gorgeous creature,
Sharing company with the air?
These questions and more I ponder,
As I can only manage to stare.

I don't wish to frighten her,
So I keep my faraway distance
Afraid she'll be afraid,
And ignore my existence.

I keep watching and waiting,
'Til she flies away on her own.
I'm left to sit and wonder,
If I shouldn't have left her alone.

12 Months

January seems to ebb and flow,
I'm told it's the most depressing of months,
For it holds the day with the least sunshine,
And also the day I was born.

February likes to roll on in,
Like a man cutting in the carwash line.
I pray for snow, I pray it comes.
But it never does in time.

March tries to bring some promise,
With warm winds washing your face.
Maybe the AC is simply broken,
But I feel so cold inside.

April brings the showers,
But mixed with sun - it makes no sense.
I'd much rather the sky be gloomy,
So I'm not guilty, or sad, or bent.

May marks the beginning,
Of free time I'll never use.
Just the beginning of another obsession,
May I please have it be you?

June, what a pretty name,
I'm sure she's beautiful.
I pontificate if it's stalking,
Or simply courage - void and null.

July holds bright rays,
Shining down upon God's grace.
What a shame I stay indoors,
O where art thou Emily?

August - what an emotion.
Special for different reasons,
But each one different,
Depending on who you ask.

September appears in hours,
Of work, and school (but play?).
Nay, just labor for me,
Trying to cope with my life.

October is where I'll hit my groove,
Thinking life is going just fine.
I think of Thanksgiving and Christmas,
Where there will be other people to dine.

November, a procrastinator's worst dream,
Rushing to complete their resolutions.
Hurrying and scurrying their lives,
Before wondering where the years went.

December is such a joyous month,
For it finally gives us time to love.
New Year's gives us wishes to make,
Before the same subsequent year begins.

And each one after that,
All exactly the same.
Atleast so far that's been the case,
I pray for change, maybe later - for death.

This Does Mean Something.

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What Is This Feeling?

If I've helped a friend,
And done something right.
Then why am I shaking,
And my stomach tight?

Deep down exists a truth,
Struggling to break free.
I focus to push it back,
In and out, one, two, three.

Do I only help for praise?
Like a gun filled with blanks?
Is that why I get upset,
When you fail to say a 'thanks'?

I wasn't meant to help others,
With an attitude so amiss.
I can't even tell myself,
Why I seem to act like this.

If I get mad at you,
Who will console me on my behalf?
Saddened by the thought,
Of a friendship I shouldn't have.

You've Got Mail (Noir)

She'd always send me text messages. Always when I wasn't expected them. Three in the morning, on a rainy Wednesday, or sometimes just before I went to bed. Each time I'd flip open my phone, and hear the automated voice and message simultaneously notify me, "You've got mail". What's even stranger is they always managed to come at the most delicate of times. Whenever I found myself in need of someone with no one around I'd always get a perfectly timed text message or voice mail. Always from her. I'm not one for miracles or anything, so you won't see me trying to convince you that she's some kind of angel. All I know for sure is that she's one of the best friends that I've had or ever will have. And that I fell in love with her.

Part of me couldn't help it. Lonely people fall in love easily. Most won't reject it when it's offered. Even if it isn't any good they'll try it out first and make decisions later. For most people in love the three magical words to make them smile are simple. Mine had a contraction which combined four words in to three. I guess you could call it cheating the system, but I'm not one for technicalities. Naturally when the text messages and voice mail stopped I wasn't in any kind of mood that could be considered anything better than pitifully denied. It wasn't that the loneliness was all that bad. In the years previous to her I had gotten used to it. Built up an immunity. I suppose it was like a cheap four dollar steak that leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth a few years after you eat it. And here I am without any mouthwash.

Seconds and minutes blurred with hours. Hours blurred with days and days with weeks. Birthdays passed by, both my own and others, without any notice or celebration. I didn't even know how old I was. Just that I was alone, and had been for quite some time. Struggling in existence like everyone else. Funny thing about life. Some people think everyone's special. Some think nobody is. I only thought that I wasn't. But I knew she was. Like a fool I charged my phone every night. Like an idiot I would roll out of bed each morning and stare back at the solitary time displayed on the screen. If she sent a message I'd see a little piece of paper, or a microphone. But every morning all I'd see were three, sometimes four if I was tired, numbers staring me straight in the face, with a colon to separate them as though it were a dagger in my heart.

As I said before, I'm not a person partial to miracles. I don't think about God, since I don't think he thinks about me. The same relationship strangers share. So when I had finally decided that I was stealing too much air from more worthy inhabitants of reality, I was ready. Pills in the cabinet. Gun on the table. Rope in the shed. Hands in my pockets. Which was it gonna be? I took time to ponder it over like a prisoner licking his lips wondering what his last meal should be. How far away was I? A minute? A couple seconds? A few brief moments in time which everyone else has taken for granted? I don't remember. The only thing I recall is hearing a "bleep" come out from my phone on the table. I stopped tying the rope around the fan. With the noose still around my neck I walked over to my bedside table. The light wasn't even bright enough to tell what the screen said. But I had that piece of paper burned in to my mind for years. I knew exactly what it was, and who it was from.

Assigned Seats

An idea just so crazy,
That it might just be true.
I can see who you will be,
By where you sat in school.

Kindergarten class,
Children so oblivious and naive.
The moment they leave the car,
They don't know what to believe.

Teachers become gods,
With a judgmental decision.
Where to assign the seats,
Assign futures to envision.

The twenty-one year old,
Who's been to all the proms,
Sat between three girls,
Thus learning to be cool and calm.

The rich computer nerd,
Who would always get harassed.
Was assigned a seat in the front,
Away from the rest of the class.

The woman with three divorces,
Who can't help it but annoy,
Would sit wherever she liked,
But usually by a cute boy.

Miss material girl,
Poor thing never had a chance.
Sitting in the midst of us all,
Holding us in perpetual trance.

In a corner by myself,
Is where I was assigned to sit each day.
Occasionally I'd have visitors,
But they never seemed to stay.

Something Funny (Exit page and come back to watch from start)

You're My Reason

The rain falls easily,
Allowing the thunder to growl.
It's a reason like why loneliness,
Is the cause of why dogs howl.

Waving our hands is caused,
By when two people say good-bye.
Just like how striking an innocent child,
Will likely cause them to cry.

Being sad is possibly the reason,
That best friends were ever made.
Just as the unknown is responsible,
For people being afraid.

The fact that we're alive,
Is also the reason we love, too.
Which is why my only reason,
Has ever been, and will be... you.

Some Quiet Place

Some quiet place this is,
In between the rifts of time.
Perhaps its no place at all,
Simply a well-acted mime.

It's quiet when I eat,
But only a few know why.
It's quiet in bed at night,
It's quiet when they pass by.

Would you like to visit me,
At my secret quiet place?
Then you'll have to ask,
If that's the case.

But so far I'm quiet alone,
A special place meant just for me.
In the foothills of Appalachia,
In some place called Tennessee.

Ha, Ha, Ha

Ha, ha, ha,
Look who's laughing now.
It's your turn to trip and fall,
And mine to take a bow.

All along you've been strung,
As a mere actor in my show.
Even when I was deathly sad,
You'd merely point and say "emo".

A loser for displaying emotion,
Hateful words becoming fuel.
You thought they'd bring me down,
You thought you were really cool.

"Let's make fun of that guy",
"Atleast it isn't me".
What a pitiful decree,
With which only cowards will agree.

But I am stronger now,
After years and years of frown.
Because overcoming you,
Has turned it upside down.

You think I'm misunderstood?
Or don't understand my style?
My way of life is simple,
Simply love and laugh and smile.

Japanese Nights

Oh what I would give,
To simply be there.
Staring at the bright lights,
And breathing in the fresh air.

All the shops and stores,
Their windows filled with games.
Each one is open late,
And they all have funny names.

The smell of the food,
Soon reaches my nose.
A smell so great,
I couldn't describe it in prose.

Everyone is crowded,
But happy nonetheless.
A place to find some peace,
And also a pretty dress.

Yet there's one thing out there,
That the night fails to provide.
A certain love in the air,
And you by my side.

Dead To Me Now

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