Jump, and Take That Leap Of Faith

New Poem

Its been a while, and this one didn’t come out as well as I had hoped. Talk about destined for the fireplace…


From tear drops arise torn fabric,
Shredded tee-shirts that I wore when I loved
are destined now for a petrol-soaked end
In a fireplace that neither knows nor cares but
Burns all the same. Flames flicker, creeping and
Crawling over the memories and dissolving them
With their plasmatic orange-and-yellow.
They swallow the past whole and leave only ashes.
The greatest murder is that of who you pretend to be.

I fucking love the beach. ‘Nuff said.

Untitled, Again

I am sadness-

The cold, harsh voice of
Winter as it brushed
Your ear and leaves a chill.

The empty feeling of an
Empty bottle, the only problem
One can’t drink away-
The only problem that remains.

The darkness-impending
When your last flame
Begins to slowly burn out, choking,
Leaving breadcrumb trails of smoke
As the only evidence of its existence.

The self-degradation of a
Prostitute that loves everyone,
But can’t ever love herself.

The final grip on a by-standing heart
Of reality at the end of another life.

I am sadness-

Anonymous asked: Are you gay?

Nope. Sorry If I’ve disappointed.

Untitled

I am going home. I move, faster than my unwanted legs
normally carry me, through memories. Each step is a step
on the past, leaving large shoe marks on photographs. Tire marks on dead pedestrians.
I was not an innocent bystander. I threw myself into the street,
the way of my motoring emotions. Myself I thrust into the situation
as I always do because standing still doesn’t sit well with me.
I move, fast. I know not what not going means. I know only
what broken glass sounds like and rejection tastes like.
Bittersweet is my isolation; I want to be alone, but I don’t want to be lonely.
I want to caress the strings of a guitar so that she
sings soft music for all to hear, though I desire no audience.
Ears hear the devil’s words. Mouths speak cruelty. Eyes serve
no purpose. Is such reflecting healthy? I asked without
expecting the answer. I am going home. I emptied my
conscience; travel lightly say I. Each step is a step, into the future.
Going home.

Eighteen Candles

Eighteen candles flicker back and forth, afraid and waiting.
Today I’m a lord, I’m the king, but without a queen.
Crowns don’t bring happiness. Even if mine were made out of
Broken glass, I don’t think it would feel different. I don’t think It would feel different,
Or that I could feel different. Look at that knife. Shimmering and sharp
And poised to cut a wish up into pieces to be partitioned off.
No thanks, I don’t care much for sweets. I’m not one for
senti-mints, though I wish I were and I could be, I’m sure.
The last candle goes out, leaving tears of smoke. And like that it ends.
There’s not much evidence; a poorly posed-for picture doesn’t make
For a good memory, and I’m not sure I want to remember in the first place.
As a matter of fact, I would rather forget. I would rather forget the years, weeks,
Days, and minutes I’ve spent. Those I spent thinking about myself, and especially
Those I spent dreaming of a queen.