Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.

I'll take them.

All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.


Give them to me.
I will take them.

Give them to me.


They are wanted here.


All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.

Give them to me.

And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.

Let me have them.

And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.

I will take them.

And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.

Let me have them.

And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.

Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.

Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:

“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”

“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”

“You were all my brightest colors.”

“I wish I were more like you.”

“I wish I were less like me.”

“I am sped.”

And we will read them at dawn like litany.

Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.

That we may take them.

And make a blanket.

A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.

I will take them.

All the parts you no longer want.

Give them to me.

Because they are what make us beautiful.

Give them to me.

That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.

That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.

Give them to me.
I will take them.

Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.

Falling Winter

Few Cracks In Palm

Fractured Pen Fingers

Forgone Ability To Draw Further Script

Famous Piece Of Crap; A Lost Letter

A Portrayal Of An Imaginary Heaven

She’s a Poem
He’s an Invisible Ink

She’s a Love Ballad
He’s a Vocal Less Echo

She’s a Soothing Lullaby
He’s a Muted Lyric

She's a Warm Breeze
He's a Whimpered Wind

She’s a Wished Rain
He’s a Thirst in Desert

She’s a Flying Dream
He’s a Falling Demon

She’s Nourishing on Pages
He's Dissolving into Ink

As if, Final Chapter of His Book in a Making?
She May Breathe Forever in His Silent Echoes...

I can't remember
Whether it's love or leave
That hurts the most

There once was a man
Who only thought about things
And never thought that things
Never thought about him.
He clamors to the thought
Of having more things
Without giving his things
A thought.

The sun would rise
The moon would set
The moon would rise
The sun would set
Another day passes
Without a thought
Till all there was left
Was his things.