lakes.

i lie awake looking in your eyes
but they're always closed as opposed to mine
and i would look right through your eyelid skin
but lately i cannot get in

it pains me to solemnly know
that some people think you must let everything go,
but this isn't a game of catch and release,
you aren't just the only fish
you're my only sea.

and you fall asleep looking in my eyes
but they look away just to watch the time
and you would ask what's wrong all over again
but my gates go up and you can't get in.

but as long as you know all that you mean to me,
you aren't just the only fish
you're my only sea.

gleeeefulandyoung.

The trashcan is old and forgotten,
ugly and ignored,
stained
battered
stashed and stored and
rusted and hidden until the moment is,
just right.
in the appropriate occasion
on appropriate lights
and dreaded while on display
these things, these things and ways.
how drearily close to being gleeful and young.

I think it is intriguing and resplendent,
yet misunderstood.
It's beaten state does not make it
any less useful,
or meaningful,
or or or or
beautiful.
This beat up thing has
seen so much
been kicked so many times
but there it is, sturdy and strong
and there to stay

kind of like being gleeful and young.

Though everyone sees
a negative thing
it could be lonely, and lovely inside and a wonderful thing.
It is the same as was, once bright and new
nothing has changed by age.
Though new facts such as that
have encased your mind
so rather then embrace, the bad you find
you suggest new paint, a new purpose, or face
and see things in a different way.

strikingly similar to being gleeful and young.

red

red is an apple and cheeks and blood.
it feels like a flushing face and pulsing veins.
red could be any letter, for it can stand alone or together but is recognized as itself.
it sounds like tongues scraping teeth and teeth biting tongues.
red smells like iron and salt, wet and dark,
illuminates about as well as a dark room
and embraces as much as a stop sign
pulverizes as much as anger
and changes like a blistered bruise.

red is romance and lips and roses.
it feels like contact and skin on skin.
red could hold up a bilboard and stay in disguise.
it sounds like passion and blooms like a flood.
red smells like the water on the gates of a cave,
confinscates as much as the brave would a warrior,
releases as much as a hunter does prey.
forgets as well as an elephant
and remains like a god, loyal and true.

red is romance
and lips, cheeks
and passion, compassion
and roses

and rushing blood

and you.

the worst feeling

the worst feeling
is that tinge of pain
bouncing off the
reflection of someones eyes
when you've thrown it there, way
and it hitting you
straight through
your pupils
and sinking into your stomach
before it even hits your mind.

prt 1.

"I guess I always feel sad." She said taking another sip from her glass and looking at her reflection. "I suppose talking to you does no good, though I know you will always find a certain level to relate which no one else can stand on.."

Days like these she was utmost reminded of the downward helical of emotion she was constantly barricaded in. The days where there was an abundance of joy in the air. The comical cliche days where there is that nagging, essential need for everyone to latch together in a paradisal and riant 24 hour period and take place in societies juncture that ought to come easily. The days like these were the lowest of the low. They reminded her not only of how she had better feel, but how she cannot muster up enough feeling at all to, well feel at all.

Setting down her glass and taking one more sideways glance at her own enigmatic reflection, before.
A slew and a familiar pigment rises.
Unable to view the distraught and disappointed face peering back at herself, after.

She pondered how a thin breaking of the surface can bring about this much sanity again, how tearing herself apart can bring herself back together. The calm following the storm. The ladder propped against the side of the bottomless pit. A hang dog to go with it and a new found blood guilty, pallid, model of her own yore that remains, constant.

Walking down the stairs slowly, feeling for the rail and crouching on a step she takes a deep breath. "I've forgotten what a smile really is. My lips are nothing more than a drape covering two rows of curtains; double shaded so no one ever really sees inside." Another heavy sigh, with drapes open, the bad kind. "I'm a poet to no one and I speak of my own flaws only to myself. I'm a person of caution and forethought in the most unnecessary times."

A finished walk down the stairs and a resumed position in a chair to begin a fresh ritual. "I suppose it would be better to stop narrating my life as I walk. Poetry consuming the motions, a sweep of a rose against pale skin instead of a kiss on a cheek. Either way, the converses with me are becoming maladaptive." She misses her smile, once lost, now found with an amazing grace brought into her life in the last few months. A smile with a new pull of curtains and drapes never begging to be closed...

prior .

the ring on my finger feels like lead,
allowing a point for gravity to pull through the floor,
past the floor boards,
drilling through the dirt
and sinking at the core of the earth.

that is the only way this ring will come off of my finger.

steps for a relationship.

start with a mix cd.
make it official.
drop the 143.
wake up next to each other.
'create' inside jokes.
engage in erotic activity.
say that it's forever.
get through the tough things.
take the pain.
ignore the problems.
use the word perfect as much as possible.
say i love you when you're scared, but never when you mean it.
stop reading each others' minds.
stop talking, start touching.
end it quick.
pretend you hated it all.

repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.repeat.

bother.

I am a burden.
I am a flash of recessing electricity.
I am a vase of sorrow placed in front of your eyes at all times
with a bouquet spouting negativity on each petal.

I'm sorry to be a bother.
I'm sorry to dim your lights and bind your brightness.
I'm sorry to cause a blockade to your vision by planting that seed.

I'm sorry that you can't even see it.