His soft blue irises
Lock with hers of cheerful green.
So enthralled by her lover,
Hand in hand side by side
This is it.
Simplicity at its best.

His steely blue eyes
Lock with hers of darkened jade.
Striking fear in all her being,
Smack for smack hit for hit
This is sick.

Love. (to fight)
Fight. (for love)
Repeat.

omo Fitutu
nureba ya Fito no
mieturan
yume to siriseba
samezaramasi wo

Was I lost in thoughts of love
When I closed my eyes? He
Appeared, and
Had I known it for a dream
I would not have awakened.

A glass of whiskey
A little bit of wine
As I tell myself
I’m all right

A taste of copper
Still stuck in my mouth
So, would you please, come on, pour me
A little bit of more

I’m on the edge
We need to stop breaking ourselves

We better act now

Before it’s too late, too late to reconcile
We’ll crash and burn as we regret the scars that once were smiles
The whole world will watch as we burn ourselves out
Igniting, in the process, our paper lungs and cigarette hearts

A puff, just one
Clouding up my mind
Inhaling the smoke
Tobacco’s just fine

No, it’s not
I light another one
I refill my cup
I want to give up

A little bit, a little while
A little time, I’m gonna be fine
A little hit, a little wine
A little bit compassion’s just fine

He bites his lips, the shape of ***,
and creases his  brow.
A musty breeze from the bar’s open door
sends me the taste of his breath,
cheap peppermint and wine.
Its succulence dulls my senses.
His terrible fingers trace my neck,
and I forget about the danger.
And he pounces, an incubus,
an ancient resident of urban wells like this one.
But his mouth is so sweet,
I cannot care.

She's cute
And delicate
And adorable
And sweet
And bubbly,
She has me swooning.
I crackle with joy
At the sight of her,
I hug her so tight
And she squeals
With delight.

It's so weird how the freckles on her face
Remind me of the cinnamon-sprinkled coffee my mother makes
She has freckles on her back too
I don't know if you know this
But that can be very attractive.

She likes literature
And art
And the way I paint pictures
With my words.

In bed she's a bit shy
She blushes a lot
And bites her lower lip,
Gives me expectant looks
Asks me questions sweetly and awkwardly.
It's all so soft and gentle
And achingly tight
When we make love
It's violently beautiful.

She likes the way I paint pictures
With my words
So she painted one for me
With her brush.
She used mostly black, grey
And a lot of different reds.
It was a painting of a naked girl
Standing on a balcony
Of an old decrepit building.
There was something dark, something sinister
About the whole painting.
Maybe it was the choice of colours
Or the girl's dark, sullen eyes.
I don't know why I didn't ask anything,
Like, why is the girl naked?
It all seemed so weird to me
But now, somehow, it makes sense.

She asked me why I didn't have the feeling
The emotion
The passion
That I have in my poems
In real life.
I wanted to say because love doesn't make sense
And hate is frustrating
And happiness is fickle
And sadness is lonesome.
But I didn't, I just shrugged
And remained silent.

She asked me why I was so quiet,
I was nervous, I admit,
But I didn't tell her so
Instead, I told her I preferred to leave my words
To pen and paper.
She smiled and I did too,
There was nothing more to talk about.
Maybe we can kiss? I asked.
She laughed
Yea. Maybe we can kiss.

Now the painting hangs in my room
And I've taken a liking to art.

We’re standing on the roof
Drunk off cheap whiskey
Yelling obscenities
Sometime in the a.m.
Below us two girls are French kissing
They look so sweet in their blue jeans.
**** reality,
We're livin' the teenage dream.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?