It All Sounds The Same

Just because it was voiced doesn't mean it was true. I thought you, of all people, would understand.

Sometimes, Tripping Feels Like Falling

You don't have to write a thousand words, just look me in the eyes and smile, and I promise I'll understand.

The Surf Drowns Everything.

And as I walked away, I thought I heard you whisper, "I'm sorry...'

It must have been the waves.

The Oxygen is My Messenger, Now

There are times when I can't think, can't breathe, can't write, can't sleep because all that I am is consumed by you. You fill my head, circle my throat, cripple my hand, and blink negative behind my eyelids.

But you're not here anymore and I can't just walk up to you, look in your eyes (I've heard they look just like mine), and tell you to go haunt someone else.

But I can't help but hope that maybe somewhere, somehow, my voice is carrying through the air to the sea to the stars, and you'll hear me screaming, "STOP. I GET IT. I'M SORRY!"

Man Was Made From Dirt and Soot and Ash.

It's the way you drop the masks for me, only me...if only for seconds at a time, but I see it and those moments stretch for eternity. I recall them with perfectly clarity: the times you shine through, all battered, broken glory, like a phoenix. It's blinding. It's fucking blinding.

It's the day we learned that what we believed to be irreparable can become whole again. It's when we watched our jagged edges coalesce; we watched our mangled souls entwine and at the moment, we formed one perfect, fully-functional human being.

It's the way I drop my masks for you, only you. It's all that matters. We're all that matters, now.

The Lack of a Muse

I find once again that my muse has escaped me. Writing words merely to write them and feel that I, yes I am profound! Can’t you see that, possible friends? Can’t you grasp that, potential lovers? Grasping chocolate hair at the roots, I tear and tear in my perpetual frustration. Oh where has my insanity gone? My lovely noose that drove me to pen such eloquence? My straight jacket whispered words that echoed of depth and comprehension well beyond my years. Am I so inept that I cannot write without the presence of tragedy, which I have never lacked before? Smiling, truly, for once in a decade, but at what price? Come back to me, my soul, my passion. Come back to me, my wounded psyche. Come back to me, insanity.

The Illogical, Expected Need

You are demented and pathetic and I want everything to do with you.