Those eyes
I remember the time I first laid eyes on those eyes
They left me with a fluttering heart and shaky thighs
I wondered who was behind them
It's like they saw right through me
I was as transparent as a window pane

Those eyes
Oh, but those eyes
A sadness always lingers in their depths
Weighted down by the anchor of their past
Such hidden secrets beneath them
They always look so wistful, like a flower with a drooping stem

Those eyes
They never give a thing away
Hiding behind their beautiful gray  
So observant
But dare they be observed, never, not a chance
I wish they'd give me a chance

Those eyes
I love when they give me that look
That knowing look
Like we share the worlds biggest secret
Some hoax only we're in on
Like how the sky isn't really blue
And only we know it's true

Those eyes
The things they do to me
I am under their spell, but somehow I am still free
With just one look they leave me naked
They strip me of my semblance
I am so palpable and raw under their gaze
And somehow, they still love what they see

Those eyes
Oh, how I love
*those eyes

It is said that the people we don't know that show up in our dreams, are merely people we've seen on the streets but never met before.
And it is said that on the inside we are all the same.
But I disagree
Because Adam ******* is still squeezing my chubby cheeks with his nostalgic hands, shaking violently at my ignorant little face whispering
"Stay here."  "Stay as long as you can." "For the love of god cherish it."
... But I never listened.
And most of you are probably thinking right now,
"What the hell does Billy Madison have to do with anything?"
I assure you, I am no medium.
But what I can tell you is, not only am I that boy; I am also the blue duck; and the little puppy that lost it's way.
I am not unique because I can quote a dumb movie I saw when I was nine.
And what differs me from you, can't even really be expressed by the English language.
But I will try
All of us can have similar emotions yes,
But we are not the same on the inside.
Because my heart is not a tandem bicycle, waiting for another passenger to pick up on my momentum for an smooth and easy ride.
And my brain has been telling me to just wait. "Your silver lining is on it's way."
what it failed to tell me is that line will be drawn in the sand only to be stamped out and washed away by beaches of people that claim they were only passing through.
How is it that I can say something as complex as that,
But I can never muster up enough courage to ask a girl to get together for a simple mutual gathering such as a cup of coffee.
I am living, breathing, regret.
And one day my best friend said to me; "Man, I wish I was you." "You're so much better than me in everything you do."
I was entranced by the audacity that someone would even consider trading places with me.
I thought "you may be my best friend. But you don't know Everything I've been through"
Just to think he would give up all his problems in life in exchange for my own. It's something else.
I replied, "Shut the hell up dude, you have a girlfriend."
But the more I look into it. Problems, are not something you can trade at a flea market.
because if you could fit problems into a box, there would be some boxes so heavy that it would burst the packing tape on the bottom end just as you tried to pick it up and move it.
Real problems are just misguided events that fog up the view of your dreams.
And as it would seem, these so-called "Dreams" have scattered upon the floor like a bag of five dozen marbles.
Meanwhile, people at the market start to crowd. So you put on a little charade.
Because you're so afraid of causing a public attraction that you'd rather try to brush everyone off with your "I'm fine's" and "nothing to see here's" when you could have just wasted less time and started to pick the marbles up one by one and fit them into a bigger box.
However in that instance, you did not stop to recognize nor study the faces of others that rushed to see if you were okay. And you did not notice they brought their boxes with them as well.
Some filled with dumbbells and some piled high with feathers.
So as far as dreams go, we are not the same.
neither is the shape or size of our boxes used to contain the items in which we hold so high in sensitivity that we think that thing we call a "dream" is the thing that matters most.
but what really matters most,
is the faces of others that we do remember when our dream does decided to roll around.

You told me it was wrong.

The magnetic pull of my body towards the need.
The way I feel it, the longing, in my chest,
how I place my hands absently on my neck,
sultrily telling you what I'm feeling.

Perhaps it's a ripple of something that has been brewing
for many years. Something always there, underneath.

Heightened by loneliness and summer heat.

Maybe it comes from a lack of normal things,
things which usually accompany
young boys.
Those things I didn't get.

Maybe it's someone's fault.

Maybe I should ask Freud, maybe he
could place his hand on my delicate cheek bone,
how it comes it a gentle hill.

He could stroke the freckled valley underneath my eyeball with his smoking pipe
and tell me pragmatically
the reasons for my feelings,

why I wanted a man to touch me without asking,
to make my face his baby in wrapped cloths.

You told me it was wrong,

like the smoking
done after the house had gone to bed at hushed hours
in the ***** garage.

like the tequila shot I did at the kitchen counter that summer
how it tasted like heat and pine needles,

how it tasted like the wooden chest in our home,
like the inside of it, the dark unvarnished interior
that could hold my tiny body if I had needed to hide

where my father kept his winter sweaters.

And how I ****** it down with the lime that I didn't bite hard enough,
my eyes were red and flooded.

It was wrong.

When the music died,
I had no reason to have cried
Just silence, that was all.
Except me, who began to bawl.

The hallways went quiet,
Everything became silent,
Just silence, that was all.
Except me, who began to bawl.

The wind made no sound,
No trace could be found.
Just silence, that was all.
Except me, who began to bawl.

There was no chirping from the crows.
Nor was there sound from the raking hoes.
Just silence, that was all.
Except me, who began to bawl.

There I sat, not a word
Not a thing said was heard.
Just silence, that was all.
Except me, who began to bawl.

The music began to play,
Everyone conversed and started to say,
"There was no silence at all,
Just that guy who began to bawl."

studying my face today
      you said
  "i wish i had your flawless skin"
               my skin is far from flawless
you can't see the scars
        lacing my limbs and chest
so maybe i don't have pimples
                 but my skin is not
    flawless

i love coffee
i also love the way
you make your coffee
it's not the way i drink it
but it still makes me laugh
        step one: make coffee
        step two: put in a little sugar
        step three: realize you need more sugar and dump more in
oh i love you