There is dark inside.
For happiness has lied.
But, take it's leave,
while hopes concede,
with time, of us to bide.

Such is of its place.
With life and flesh debase.
Make light of none,
with parting sun,
the desperate to erase.

So go with key in hand.
And heart inside a tomb.
To steel away, from hearth and past,

in past no longer stay.

With listlessness​,
to find a match.

To claim,
and, make away.

To make a hope,
the common tongue,
we speak of everyday.

Bookshelves are like apartment complexes,
with woody browns and dusty greys that they
just won’t let you paint over.

Rick Riordan and J. K. Rowling live with
their best friend, Cassandra Clare,
in the penthouse,
because we all had great childhood loves
filled with library-book paper cuts
and worn and scotch-taped pages.

Tolkien is merely an elevator ride below
and Austen is only a cheap oak door away,
because they are as dramatic as pre-teen girls were about Justin Bieber,  
and traveling to Mordor and
loving Mr. Darcy
is basically the same anyway.

But Frost and Dickinson live across the hall from
Hughes and Homer,
because everyone stops for death and
roads less traveled by,
and even though no one ever saw Emily,
they all thought they were very popular.

The bottom floor is filled with sundry residents
that no one sees as they come and go.
They just hear the dogs barking and doors slamming,
(Old Man Shakespeare wants them to leave him alone.)
but every teen fiction novel has a Romeo and Juliet story
and a broken boy and a dog.

And so if bookshelves are like apartment complexes?
Where will I live, and
could I even be
a resident?

THE NIGHT has a thousand eyes,
  And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
  With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,         
  And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
  When love is done.

Behind the eyes and into the mind
A world from beyond
Was always there, but rough to find

Behind the crystal blue diamonds it calls me
A beckon from beneath the surface
Your ideas inside growing fast; a tree

You speak of nothing with sense or
Of worth,
Just death

As thoughts come and go rapidly
I wonder if you'll make it through
Or if you take my hand
And ill pull you through

everything hurts
my head
my heart
my hands

my head hurts
for i cannot understand you
i do not understand
the reason for your tears
your anger
your sorrow
your resentment
towards me

my heart hurts
for i feel the consequences
of your pent up emotions
once bottled up
now exploded
onto me

my hands hurt
for i cannot reach out and touch you
not like i used to
not like you used to want me to

most of all
my eyes hurt
for you cannot look at me
in the eyes
not the same way
not like you love me