-lying on a bed with satin sheets and stacks of cash

-pastel pink lingerie and a matching pistol to go with it

-black chokers with pearl earrings

-crystal chandeliers to break

-making your girl ******

it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...

but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.

slamming doors still sound
like fired shots
and
loud voices still sound like
grenades--
warfare is something that never quite leaves the mind
it's a trigger pulled rifle or a trigger that pulls me
back into the past
where I am afraid and alone
and where I am held against my will.
shouting rages have a way about them that
feels like broken shards of glass piercing my ear drums or my mentality
and if hands are not anything less than gentle,
I grow cautious and cowardly.
I never quite outgrew the habit of ducking my head
when I hear hateful words and could never quite fathom the idea that the sting of sharp curses could be used jokingly and not with ill intent.
while most people live to fight, I live
to forget my battle wounds...
because it's easier to admit
that I can heal
than it is to admit the bullets to my fragile heart were fatal--
blood isn't the only thing that's bleeding out of me.

the mind is a vessel swimming in ideas, until the break into reality--waves are receding from the shoreline of thought,
crashing crescendos of melodies
that ached to be heard
And
words that longed to be written
And
memories that once resurfaced--

All gone.

Dreaming is a poet's land and
I ache for eye sight and control and the free flight of my subconscious.