everyday pages

the stained ring beneath my glass
has a heart
that i will let beat,
because without it
i am lonely.

sitting on the eighth floor
peaking at the world
city limits
so far,
so small,
like a christmas tree.

wishing i could
unscrew every
flickering light,
dispose of every
angry crowd.

the night sleeps
so loud,
while deep inside of me
helpless souls and crying hearts
walk around.

One night
peace, sleep and
tossing no fears,
hides a bit of warmth
int this cold surface
called life.

and if this glass jar
concealing comfort,
be shattered,
the world would be uncomfortable.

with these eyeball made impressions
it seems that
only mirrors can relay
sharp truths,
as one more
compliment
falls down.

in frail shards of glass
a face holds well,
allowing tears
to run
as the sweat
smears
nicely.

half of a profile
and a fraction of a smile
project an abstract movie.
this declined art
mounts
on dusty floors,
unlike the everyday hangings
of portraits.

like how cold tears can be
when they are choked back,
i wanna shiver,
and i wanna buckle at the knees
to catch a tongue and rescue
the,
what's said of yesterday.

smoke raises in bellows a hush not,
don't tell anyone i'm smoking in the house, i will cover it up with candles, i will cover it up with the same guilty smile i have ben using for years. no one will compromise a well to do worth waiting for,
especially when they are not expecting it.

as she lay dying,
the belt buckle of stars lay
at my lazy feet.

but dying doesn't wake,
not even to squint out a last
final spy,

so a dream must have
stole her corpse,
because the phone call i got
was rabid,
and that's when my smile informed me
she was still alive.

underneath, she
prowls me
like a bit of a haste
and the results of her disease in mine
is prominent.

today has possibly that sudden onset of an end,
and all reason has been flattered with
throughout the cloudiness and even the frequent conversations i've had.
i'm determined to write in a journalistic sort of way,
but it always comes out like metaphors.

like my father, the sudden trembling of a staircase shakes my bedded earth, as i yet try and sleep
through what is rightfully my night.
but that stairway it haunts like footprints that will surerly come and startle my sacred dreams and a voice will holler at me
to participate once again.
i don't know the answer, just like i don't know the answer now.
i don't know why you want to talk to me at this moment,
especially when you are raping me from my rightfully earned dreams.


downstairs the music bellows like a
an artist is at work, at work on the familiar intoxicating art.

i fear the worst, and the moonlight crashing of my dinner dishes tell me, the worst
isn't even what i expected, it's just the normal,
so that's okay.

grab me by the hair, time, please,
i smile at the chance to call this instance gone
and thank whatever is omnipresent,
because i have run out of things to say.

No, Dad i cannot answer you.,
i am to busy trying to talk to myself.

If i could just
ease your precious wonder
into faraway places,
the guilt would strangle
my heart as i collect the
watchful eyes
each time
your innocent soul
cries to waves
of rain.

If i could
shovel you, the warmness
that dishes itself to
everything i feel
and feel to touch,
your fingers would melt,
as my love tumbles
to slow your soft feet.

If i could just
eternalize that
everlasting gaze,
showing the world
more than grace,
than this crowd of angels could be
unfallen
and blessed infinite with
your holistic bound face.

And believe, if i could,
to know that error has profound place
in this humanity gifted imperfect,
and that the ever
moving beauty of you
in my heart,
has constructed mountains of
immobile satire,
to slew my soul
and let you disect
the paths i've struggled and
snugly walked to find you.

For it is in you,
that has ever turned
my weary head to long for
better places,
places finding joy
to multiply and seek
love and peace for my
ungrateful emptiness.

And it has been you,
for casted in older souls so
innocent on my ruthless travels,
that has smiled back to
graze a starving hand and
force my closed-self
to gently go with what has us
all sacred
and what has to be unraveled.

The horizon has been,
the haunting blue eyes, piercing to say
unconditional,
what i crave.
so desperatley i have wept to guide
fallen tears to
somehow reach the stream
to which you secretly bathe.

And to the lifetimes i have slipped in and out of
to bid some form of ado,
they shall recreate and become
the smallest incision
in my deepest wound to
proudly say,
Ethan, i love you.

underneath, she
prowls me
like a bit of a haste
and the results of her disease in mine
are prominant.

shackled now i'm
on this onset of sleep and
the smoke of stale cigarettes
have begun to choke me,
to a feeling
that
has my neck in chains.

but love, isn't it the same?

she moves me into uncrowded places
where she knows
i want to be,
unleathered and undiscovered
on a path of
no conversation in the
corner, where the
cobwebbs get the
best of me.

the street lights outside
don't even exist in here,
they wish and wash
as the water glistened streets
flicker along
to the joy of riding
in a car with a passenger.

Dec. 13th, 2007 09:31 pm if i could...
if i could weave the waves of interest
that rest on my shore
where would most emotions be?

the fading of such sunrise wouldn't
fade at all,
it would lay it's dreary hand
on a dock silently waiting
for a bit of change.

if all our cries were as pleasant as crickets,
would we even know that they existed?
if our duties to please, built noble characters,
would the weight of hate even be shifted?

i'm damaged
like i've been damaged before
only this time
i'm left scarred
and i'm still a little sore.

sore from my own remedies
and what's been left unchanged.
time to rescue my
priorities
from the the rolling rivers
inside my brain.

if i could weave the waves of interest
that rest on my shore
would most emotions be.

the fading of such sunrise wouldn't
fade at all,
it would lay it's dreary hand
on a dock silently waiting
for a bit of change.

circus monkeys and the frenzy that
exist inside them
perfects me,
becauce my suit is just as colorful
and people mock in the same way.

but we are happy
we do not fight the ghosts
nor the other versions of ourselves
that try to steal us.