He was always too good to me,
I never understood
why he let me take all,
that I possibly could.
so in my sleep and when I wake,
my heavy heart still tends to ache.
For him and me and all I feel,
for worlds we contrived,
convinced they were real .
Now in sorrow and insight,
sickness and pain,
sleep or insomnia,
with guilt and with shame:
I admit to defeat and begin my descent,
both feet in the air and face on cement,
All the damage is done now- how I'm alone but I'm free-
how no one compares,
He was too good to me.

Oh how the saying makes me sick while excuses, there are not,
Decisions to decisions, word's weaponed from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase; is born within the dark;
words I whispered to myself, a lone,

                                              A Sky-cyphers Scribble-sailing mark.

For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.

all of the meaning and every moral, we tether to our mortal coil
Life and it's significance- of time, distilled in transience .

The concept of fate & of destiny, too
Both insinuate journey, the movement through
How, now, can our destinations insue
We'll come Home, its depths, are dreams of blue.


*between the church hymn
And under haiku
It is,
Ravled in deep bules

will you, old friend- follow me?
through the great lakes, and the sea?
over the desert and oasis blue-
through boreal forests, and tropic ones too?
will you bathe in natures fountain ?
or live up on the lonely mountain ?

will you see ever- honestly,  
that all that you have come to be
is better than you really know
Lets meet back stage;
after the show.

Definitely doomed,  correctedly single

Reveries

In my mind's eyes beginnings twinkle.

Memory

Ceasing snowfall to pollins sprinkle

Fantasies

Through parted lips felt psychic tingle

Alone

It Feels More Than It Really Is,

Desolate abandonment
The void left by, taught through
The faces I would turn towards
And truest love I knew

Yet away from me, unhappily
Or indifferent, themselves have turned
Fixed, never to meet within my gaze
My life's  cautionary tale, discerned
Falling in love with many a friend
From very early on
Where nothing matters like they do,
No matter that they've gone.
No matter that the majority
the best parts of our life's real years,
Are spent relapsing in mere memories
As sincerely, serenely, their aura disappears.

It Really Is More Than It Feels

Alone

Dear bumps and bruises Doctor,
To you I never voiced the call-
You say your fee is very simple
But nothing is at all.
And im sitting here and wishing
In the years that are to be
When I'm faced with life's real troubles
They won't follow me.

It's right after I wrote your message
That I had to write this here
Please know I dont hightlight tragedy
But this page, is full of fear...

It's also full of a bunch of NEXT ****T

To single out fear is but a guise!
one written so as to throw you off,
In hopes that you realize
That I write for more than just
Some cathartic sort of prize

It's a vehicle, A medium
unique as song and dance-
Like water color or oil paints
The rhythmic rhymes entrance

It's upon these cold stones
Which now, I choose to sit, and wait.

Alone at sunrise, fear, hatred and of course, this synthetic 'Art of Doubt'....become me.

The ridged steps- my only companionship
the true essence of cold.

as my fingers numb, and I can barley type this out
Honestly know
I wonder how long and painful
death by ice
really must be.

Beside me; a building filled with everything I could ever ask for want or even need.

Everything.

And yet , Upon these Cold stones
I sit, just a while longer
To remember what I still have. Not mourn what I've lost.

But mainly, to be a man who doesnt deserve anything inside that wonderful, overwhelming sentimental house. Be it people, possessions even the animals-on those cold steps of reality-he deserves where he rests.
They all deserve more than what I thought I could haven given them.
More than this.
I am so sorry Dad.
Im very sorry Mom.

Thank you, for these cold stones.  You will never understand the gratitude, which one day
I must leave behind,
of all the these priceless blessings.

But for now
It's upon these
Oh so cold, disgracelesss stones- you and me are too alike
melted with liquid burned and with fire, me and these cold stones
know true
desperation.

When its sharp it storms the mind,
swirls of smoke & hate combined-
slither insidiously they entwine,
damage done worse every time.
Clouds to crave- poison waves
seen through white glass & a delirious daze
to dull forever an old sun's rays
light which used to shine out always
now bends inward, refracting in ways
to disguise & confuse in an camouflaged haze.

more & more & more & more
of the curse that never ends,
be it smoke or crystal spore
or snake disguised as friend.
I feel it deep within my core
I desperately pretend
you'll be back to fuel me or
a hand someone will lend.

Sometimes I regret every single thing
And
In my pain- I pass on by

emotionless  oh but still it hurts

You tell the truth,

N I dodge your smoke,

As if sometime I could regret.


away and then I cry....

Won't you go away?

emotionless

The most superficial of all my troubles-
My backache does prosist.
Throughout all my other ****
That dull pain still exists.

Tucked in every lonley smile
And every insatiable crave
Is that pain, sciatic style
Despite how I behave;

Yet dealing with much more then a backache am I,
Addictions, Predictions, prescriptions, I lye:
Here in my bed in my room in my shame,
harbouring my bodys everworseing pain.

I made a pitcure of jade and emma,
Tossed it on my wall,
Even took a couples pics
They loved it, that was all.
Neither understood its facts,
and till now, neither did I
Intended not as honorary, but as a battlecry.
That picture I conceived of them, includes me in it not- just my reflection in it's glaze, an abstraction in their thoughts.

And yes, even we formidibal three
Somehow all forgot
That even forever aint forever
Our lessons already taught.
And so the power of this image, is more then I will share-
It merley depicts my two best friends,
Admiting they don't care.

This type of art is devistating.
Astonishingly clever,
So clear its truths invisible
The subjects see it never.

Prove to me

That there's no twilight galaxy

Sing it to me-

always I search.

Put me down.

Lead me away, through confusion

Pain and fear will follow
But at least we'll be together.

Pain and fear will follow-
So put me down.

There's freedom to-
and freedom from,
Freedom to run from anyone.
Free from the darkness; a schorching sun till
Freedom's light warms everyone.

Freedom from judgment, how endlessly unfair-
Free from the consciousness,
Blissfully unaware.
Freedom from judgment's unblinking glare & Free,
without expectation's care.

Free to do
And freely undone
Free to run from

H    is for help! you know I'm alive
E    for estranged, expressionistics
        contrive
R    eading rhymes- revise, review
        reprise, recite- rethink and renue.
O    verwhelming-
        vertly, overdone-
         bsessive...
o  ntology~
      
Still, I'm the one.
I'm the hero, of the story-
Don't need to be saved.

On my nape the unassuming kiss placed, between slumber's tumble...
While all the while we might forget
Moving forward / Backwardly stumble

Wild eyes open - pierce the dark
Left on my nape, that mesmerizing kiss,
bearing the mark
of true fictitiousness.

Invisibly insidious
I'll scrub it clean off me-
Deliberately delirious
Modern Romance < Liberty.

this is my only poem-
and its been  written to include

me; within its home-

in an unspoken prelude

H for the humility be it here or there
U for understanding  yet so  unaware
G for the good and also the great
O for opinions we insinuate

Standing Tall, Standing Brave
is to ignore the chase
begin to hope, rethink the life
I once chose to embrace
though I've still got you-
All  age is on your face-
You've become the one reason
for my life, to retrace
Because you see- with your love
my sorrows replace,
your compassion is my fuel
in life's brutal race.
With Softly Spoken Wisdom &
Unrelenting Grace-
Dad you remind me alone
that I'm not in this place.

My heart is heavy at the gates
Where I was caught before;
Could catch my breath beneath the light -
Kneeling at the door
Gothic bars locked from inside
Thrice absent as sorrow states;
Alone there's nowhere left to hide-
heavyhearteed heartbeats- at The Gates

Waged war unto, through words themselves  
I'm obsessed with this fight,
My heart heaves heavy at the gates -
Forever sealed despite.

I have a song which my soul sings
Almost all the time, I frown,
For new sounds with it, it always brings
when I try to write it down.
within my tameless mind
Each attempt itself's profound;
weaving through signature time till the melodies  unbound.

the way it always comes out wrong-
Is something I can’t change;
So I listen again, for My Song
though each new sound is strange.

And so it tolls forever,
with an echo of real love-
and effortlessly somehow it's always been
what I’m dreaming of.

Happy birthday- its what they'll say
With voices which typed words delay
Where on your behalf today, they'll wish
Simply for your happiness

A wish to me, is like the Horizon
An imaginary line of undefined potential,
Forever fading when approached.
With its endless opportunity preceding
the powerless thrill of pursuit-
Forever fading,
we approach.

When Happiness is fleeting
as all emotions are,
The golden light of  this April's dawn-
Not silhouetted, scars.

He would always wear my ring- giving me his full attention;
he would lay there- with me,
he listened to the music.
He listened to our songs.

And she carries my pouch, the one I made for her coins.
She carries my artwork- a piece of my mind, my imagination- one of which that even escapes my own memory-
I know she carried it,
Wherever she went.

And with a silent , namelless love, He uses my bookmark.
The one I made for him.
  I know, at every ending,
to every story-
It's there.  

A simple ring, a coin purse, a bookmark;
like the unity of a song we all listen to at once-
we're pushed together, bound by memory,
and immortalized in such fleeting feelings.
  
Isn't It Strange? That within these three mundane objects
I take solice.

Some people stay in our hearts forever
The longer, you'd expect , the more the pleasure
But that's not the case it seems, however
for from the heart , they just won't sever.

The artists impartiality
Of their craft's integrity
Is their profound gift
May it set us all free-
& Vanquish all anxiety.

When each page is blank, and book empty
Its full with potential's entierity.
Our real gift is sweet opportunity
To create and contrive
Fearlessly.

Its in our art we become who we wanted to be
With truthfull eyes we garentee
That you'll one day begin to see

The artist's impartiality.

The cruelty of the the human mind-
To lose, to keep, to hide, to find
Half our life be only true
If somehow the mind allows it to...

To forget; well sadly nothing truly competes
for it's the most merciless of our minds feats:
Nothing can be real
if your memory can't on cue:
Regurgitate information,
ephemerally true.

To perform, to recite, to repeat, and understand-
through blackness- pathetic, forget it, regret it
Oh how the mind cruelly demands.