I'm writing to you from in-between the last page,
it's descendant and the spine, of the world
a typist creates, and a writer imagines in his soul,
where the former has an unknown bearing and suffers
no toll.

I displaced your thoughts not because I could,
nor because I understood, I did it because I am reckless,
I did it in poetry's place, because to call you in prose
could never satiate what the composer proposed.

Madman before mad men, pitchforks and fires in angry homes,
where they begin, before their machines of sin,
I am the well of the unwell, I fought for, before, and tore,
your kin.

Candles, courting beauty as her dress trails the heaven
before the floor, grace in a body, undressed for us mad men.

Still and stoic, stunned, momentarily,
for the sake of not wanting to tarry,
though her eyes are starry
I suppose I am chasing the fiery,
like a proper torture puppet,
where pleasure is purely measured by the sounds she makes,
and I,
a pain filled pie,
promising to encapsulate a well packaged bespoke mind,
tailored to her tail and devilish wings,
let my crown be one that stings, if so she esteems,

roar and drag my nails against the sheets,
across the bedroom floor and into conspiracy,
teeming in a way that they would deem, simplified and undignified,
while you dig your nails in and I dream of your teeth,
do everything and all without leaving nothing undone unto me,

my promise is not to bawl, except of joy, that I'd devolve for the sake of your destitute ball. Trampling and fancying my fencing fall,
hearing me enamored through the halls, because I am what she esteems, and nothing is as it seems, unless she sees it fit,
and I throw her a romantic fit.

Go on, capture yourself capturing me, witness how it is that a rose falls, into a flower garden with no mystery to solve, for the only way is up, and the field is filled and sunlit. Might you say there's nothing to wit, just decadence to not be absolved but played with.

Your fire, I acquit.

Written to the wind, the lakes, the beautiful scene
that takes so little to love...I'm ready to go...
become a part of the flow, let it be a final kiss to the world.

cuz it sang songs it didn't know nothing about,
carrying false wisdom it isn't unsure about,

Take it allllll away, let me be like the wind and the lakes,
let them find a beautiful scene and say i just stopped to sing.

I'm ready, but are you... you're too ready, and deadening the world
with unperceived dreading...filling cups full of emptiness that would be better off being liquor...how much do you actually care.

I got one for you,
it is my tale,
the tail of a demon or dragon, I'd like to fancy,
probably something much more benign like a squirrel,
dare I say he's fierce and fancy,

Perhaps a monocle in the eye,
and style that grazes the periphery of glancing eyes,

Has a bold tree, with bold and brash leaves,
belonging in the heights of glory,
with a halo atop,
of course the rising sun's glowing, naturally,

Fun for the sake of it, life,
but a break of it,

Rifts waving from underneath your pits,
right there in the heart, have we all equipped,
the same care to stop and fidget, to play against
the rules of the play, without saying I quit.

The sunrise is bright tomorrow,
Grass greener than ever,
That something happens I would have loved forever.

A call comes and it lasts even while you make dinner,
A kitten finds a home to make a winner,
A letter crosses oceans and skies for just your smile.

Her eyes reflect the moonlight and a kiss follows behind,
The songs turn into numbers and into hours you couldn't find,
Your voice comes back and the sun is warm and fine.

Our cars don't whine,
Hours with friends from old times,
Discovering new wine with someone on a new line.

The peace comes quickly,
Forgiveness is forgotten and moved on from,
Everyone is happy.

Of the ugliest things in the world, is how often something
becomes nothing.

How often things are laid to waste, because of a face,
or wrong kind of lace.

As if the hours before were no kind of trace, of a thing at all,
like the misery these things could never solve.

All of a sudden, the mystery is gone, the story, the want of it, is history, and you continue listening to the old song.

Toss me to the sharks, for such is the throng, of men, and mice,
of women and lice, of vultures that don't sleep in the nights.

Call me an armored woman, of beautiful armor, let her see glory in my sword being eternally gone.

Have a sweet place waiting, have the voices be cheers, have the misery become a song.

When the skin is pierced,
at that point,
your finger,
breaking past the ring,
like a midnight petal of drear,
to be called my dear.

To be called,
be near,
when everywhere you steer,
my dearest like a demon at my behest,
what about all the flowers,
are they not all a sum of hours.

Characters at loves command,
answering the sweetest beckoning,
now sullen and deafening,
at the rate of this infernal pounding,
a resounding no,
for the sake of your own rejection.

A mental machination,
the result of a twisted imagination,
is my last hope,
to deny that you are the bold face of fear,
the candle is the only thing alive here.

is answered by whom,
is it the shadows,
are they those that detest,
who protest as a test,
to strengthen themselves by showing a weakness,
are they the low lights sitting in meekness,
arguing about what bleak really is.

Do they say a thing at all, are they patiently waiting,
or are they hurling themselves as in a mad ball,
of lunatics and deprived fashions,
depraved for the sake of not being old fashioned,
carrying a sash with no idea of war,
teeth that gnash for the sake of relaxing.

Why, for what purpose?

are questions presented such as this,
is there any that suggest,
or do they just listen?
glisten in the corners like a dissipating mist and
carry on until nothing is all that remains to enlist.

Dead corpses, serving no purpose,
that can't be fed upon by the land,
and offer the eyes nothing to despise,
something like flowers, roses, converted to rind,
lacking aroma of any kind, angry that they were of such a kind.

The folks are acquitted,
Each and every one,
Checked out, without, perhaps not even listening.

I don't read,
because you took my eyes,
with well thought lies,
you dug at my heart like something you despise,

Darling, I could have called, you
underneath the blood you hated and so spewed,
darling, my darling, my blood curdling darling,

Can you see me, or hear me,
am I still breathing, I think
I am thinking, and maybe I am smiling,

Thought I'd take you for miles,
or walk them endlessly,
but the dirt and six feet is in what you envelope me,

Final letters written without a care,
I see your back, and I am either dead,
or I stare.

Let's feel the steam,
turn it up,
slide your fingers across the sheen,
bliss,
being traced by your fingertips,
drawing to a kiss.

See through,
and you're the painting,
the wall is blue, we're the pink and
subtle red.

Those locks call my digits their keys,
but they're drenched and so I just squeeze,
I felt the wall tremble, with every nibble,
from careful artwork, to fierce scribbles.

I am a master at work, in the palm of his muse,
the oils and stream, our dance, we fuse,

She is a mastress at work, in the storm of his mind,
thunder and lightning, an unbothered vine.

Trying to teach you that can't is a broken spell,
a collection of words smothered in a fist,
deprived of touching can, before its magic had its knell,

The progenitors of these phrases drown in its graces,
they become the it of their own undoing,
husband and wife to guttural utterances,

Cloaked is the mirror with a window on full display,
smiling through your reflection, praying through convection,
seeking the angel's wings buried in the ground,

It's all dirt beneath their lips,
give them a spear they fancy it a fork,
a hook for their purposes,

There is no can't besides what is in there eyes,

There is no can't and above the bird flies,

There is no can't and here we find ourselves in our minds,

The law to them is of designs,
the life is what they inscribe,
there is no can't, but they can't.

body, we've been given these pale wings,
they are not meant for flight,

mind, we are drunken without drinking,
tread carefully lest we fall down the flight,

bones, at home alone,
seeking where to run,

muscles, outside and alone,
hobbling, as we can no longer run,

heart, drinking blood, but what are you thinking,
inside me but outside it is raining,
your means of becoming undone,

soul, how are you keeping,
the unraveling from meaning we are done.

Push, bring in the light,
let ellipses fight

such a daring battle, to choose,
pleasure, or the night

the shield or the knight,
the steed or its might

whispering or shouting,
talking or jousting

grass or the darkness,
black air, or a full moonlight

passing you by, or drowning
in the midst of it.

Got nothing left,
telling me what to be and do,
and you've left a mess,
and the shattered me is true

a mirror with burns,
a knife next to an urn,
pictures folded up neatly,
a frown too buried to come out

my eyes are closed now,
I'm listening,
I'm tired,
I'm missing.

Let them read, past the wind,
have them say what we've written,
in their mind, in this time,
in the midst of us being


The night is fine
but you
are
divine, dripping rain of the goddess
of outside, of my life,
my wine.

Crestfallen, brokenhearted,
until
but you
became my line, my reason to get started,
my blood.

Consummate, assimilate,
become one, because you,
are
the star that rose up, at dawn,
my flower,
my vine.

Let them read, past the wind,
have them say what we've written,
in their mind, in this time,
in the midst of we drinking
of our goblet, divine,
throughout all time.

On fire, skipping across the lake,
awaiting a painting that finally takes,
the moments into bliss,
the reading away from the fakes,
who dares, who calls my name,
who can tell me everything isn't the same,

all the words, coming like herds,
answering nothing, despite everything,
I heard, I break, I snake through the grounds
begging for the moments,
begging the torments, nag another day, let me escape,
I'm just a man, I yell, I scream, I bleed.

The story is nameless, faceless, and veinless,
who says hello when everyone is dead.

How empty are the walls when no one showed up, again,
are these halls too commonplace to conjure or figure about.

Why does one say about the other what presence eliminates,
hello, goodbye, I love you, your matter is mine.

Take the skies, give them names,
clouds are meant to die, to dye,
universes with romance,
nothings with  everything.

I culminate into a never-ending sunrise,
I desecrate as desperate, father said.

I go, before the eyes, like I was never there
I terminate to speculate, dreaming.

You shouldn't be here.
You should've kept,
You wouldn't've.
We, aren't.

Grains of sand, slipping through my fingertips, because I'm alive and refuse to quit. There's songs, ampersands, sounds fueling my environment with waves and I'm not fighting them. Going inside reverberating through the halls in my skull, calling out my name like someone used to call it. Asking the shadows which one of them will help me solve it, this disaster lying in wait, telling me everything will be great, I stop to think, I stagnate

Don't know what to feel, cuz you're lost in the fields,
and the roses don't want to talk no more,
You're my brother and I feel,  I hope your soul is outta steel,
because the weathers getting worse and the sweaters are a steal,
but the flowers don't want to talk anymore,
they just want you to kneel, take a breath, and make it last,
so the flowers cant ever talk anymore.

The lovers by the trees, skies blacker than not seeing,
and petals don't have any color anymore,
seem my mind for your sake, grab a hold and take,
what grip might slip, in the mind never shakes,
there's no colors to see, nor a mind to break,
the world isn't black no more.

In the clouds like a shield, in her eyes like a field,
and I stare but they don't blink anymore,
You're my lover and I feel, nothing like a colorless field,
I take your fingers, but they don't hold on, and you would never let go.

Father, they don't have names,
Mother, is it their soul that I take,
is it mine, sister,
am I truly their brother.

what family have we,
us of the sorts with no further resort but to break,
I dance because I shake,
I bleed into a lake while beauty is my only sake.

How can it be, how can I seem, why can I dream,
but the stars are like birds afar, whose wings I just barely cannot make, their song, it seems fake.

Times a goin, there's times that are still flowing, but the rhymes
don't bring me solace anymore.

I broke, ripped apart, tore even our hold, I'd swore our love would be
until we were old.

Forgive me, for the pain, forgive this feeble brain, cuz I lost myself
for nothing to gain.

Darling, old music don't sing no more, not around my parts, or around my heart, wife that ring looks cold, and you're gone.

why can i still see, and hear those birds, singing every morning, past all this hurt, how come the soul doesn't just explode.

Pain is no longer allegory, and I'm still just remaining me, oh baby,
how come, we don't just grow old.

The story looks at me, says in time and without even a please, but I, can only take so much more of this hold.

The same miseries I sing, Have you ever come around?
Do you paint me found in that easel were the lost abound?

If I sing into that sunken town,
its dirt roads and wastelands of old clothes,
Will I but call the animals of the fall,
will the angel's toes enter the mad ball,
The stagnant paroxysm stuck in a still frenzy

will the wolves in howl drown my call
make my dream a figment doubly null
If I sit like a shadow, can they suffer a reflective maw
glisten again, like children with sunlit pearls

The intoxicating rave is over
She's no petals to throw you
sickened and befallen with you
she's fancied a plague of you
I am at every end

Run till you comprehend
your feet are dry as I've wept instead
Red footprints are letters in my head
I'll follow you to the place we met

I'll decide to sit,
everytime
I'll fall for the smile
I'll stare in the awkward way
you'll put me in the end

forever and once again

my dear... walk by once again.

It's a feeling,
that ends underneath the eyes,
and I couldn't tell you its beginning,
but ultimately it's called crying

kind of like skin that's torn,
maybe what you imagine,
if you picture a wooden shack,
pillaged, strewn about,
now make it beloved,
it's grandma's, or love
however you shape it

the teardrops seem to have only one way,
but don't dismiss them
they are varied

some come buried,
others help you drown,
some accompanied by a sound,
some fill the town, and others follow
only a silent frown

but you can smile too, when those dastardly things
are coming down.

Blessings to this shovel,
all praises to the sheen of a stolen thing,
having no place but the soul's face,
seated in my one seat,
minuscule in comparison,
to the finality of this grand thing,
the dirt and me,
begging for the killing,
a sunlight that's finally singin
a target worth stingin
how can the hum and buzz ultimately be
a hymn to a thing that couldn't be,
what tears are you talking about,
they are what make me,
and so I call out, and you shout back,
a dearest is what this must be.

Sage to ward away the bad spirits...
I am confident, I am sure...
please don't make me doubt,
please don't let me leave without.

But who am I begging, what nature or stone,
what call am I making, here, alone...

You see me, and the kiss is deep,
I am in bliss, but my thoughts keep
arising before I fall them, and tell myself to focus on the dream.

We're inside now, I am,
kissing you deeply, and you're crying out...

But I am deeper in my mind, asking myself what I'm worried about.

The conversation is too short, I can tell, you can tell.

You say it's time to go, and now my writing is my crying out.