I have cried over less, and I've cried over better
And I've spent periods of time within panic attacks
In the middle of the class when I can't count the facts
And over high numbers, my cheeks have been wetter.

I have cried over less, and for no reason at all
And I've spent so much time loathing me more and more
Late at night when it's all been for naught, I was sure
And over lesser failures, I would weep; I would bawl

I have cried over less, so it's safe to assume
That I've done what I wished and at least seem to think
That for once, it's not worth the time it takes to sink
Into my shallow depression and once more be exhumed.

I have cried over less, and I'm glad of the fact
That I see black from white and grey inbetween
And I'm smart, even now, and more than I seem
And my new year's resolution seems safely intact.

I sat upon the window sill
and thought - for thoughts are never still -
that if all the world my oyster was,
then all the world my choices stung
and if all the world a stage may be,
my part is such a site to see
a monologue, soliloquy
the question - to be, or not to be?

a poem in pentameter
but such exact parameters
find talent lacking quite a bit
to coin a phrase: "well, ******* ****"

the critics all prefer your prose,
but you can't quite see over your nose
reduced to quaint obscenities
and use them so uncertainly

but on the past, i must digress
and to my original thought regress
for window sills demand your calm
So I must cease, or I'll be gone.

old friends whose words once mattered none
now speak with dark, with heavy tongues
now speak which once made angels run
now speak to make the demons come

and tell their tales when dead men don't
and whisper fears that horrors own
now silent, umber, as it shone,
and paradox to bring you home

now listen, quiet, awe and fear
oh -- demons, that they've summoned near
within, without, no doubt, all clear
old friends who speak, though never here

and friends who wake the dead - to speak -
to speak of angels, to fear the weak
to face the things they could not seek
and finding more than they can keep

and finding that which none could know
would bring less cheer, would bring more woe
to try again, to stop, to go
to finder' keeper's, to tell and show

old friends, whose bodies rotted since
the time that they'd seek recompense,
rise once again, sit on the fence
and in the sanctuary convinced

tell tales of places far, yet near
of horrors, nightmares, monsters dear
They scare and yet do cry in fear,
Old friends who speak, though never here.

in the dark
in the half dark and in the half light of the half conscious
and fully awake
in the late and in the early
and in the silence of the overbearing noises a small sound
slides through,
and the butterflies in your stomach have all turned to
rocs
and you can't breathe and you can only think if only there was some way
because half concealed glances and whispered pleas just don't
cut it.
you need something you can touch.

half an age away from me & half a breath too near
silken sheen glowing from the lighthouse to the pier
would that you would look my way, instead of just appear
and would that i could speak just once and not shrink back in fear
and would that i could whisper once your name in tones endeared
and would that i could somehow make my efforts very clear
and would that i could, in a place outside of my mind, hear
you say in your own velvet tones a promise once sincere.

umber spilled from his lips
and shattered light from his fingertips
when the helium of blue giants has all gone, his solar system
crumbles with it
and he grows
he grows as much as he can, holds on as long as he can, but
everything falls apart.
you can see the remnant of his supernova in his face, in his hands, in his shaky breath and tremulous words
in the heart, still glowing brighter and hotter than any Ia star,
but that pulsar, his mind, keeps spinning and spinning
long after he's nothing but
dust.