The New Year

Everything that has piled up
or has gathered here,
or has come to be

will go, within
this awaited night,
to be archived, to be
made real within

my continued, young exsistence.

Everything

that I have seen,
that I have felt,
that I know to have happened,
will go, within
this fearful night

to be engraved, to be written
in stone.

The turnings of this planet,
the turnings of the moon,
and the way we all spun and revolved:

will go, within
this precious night
to be archived, to be
made real.


There is no turning back now.

Love poems are stupid, but I'm writing this one for you.

You are a comforting echo on the edge of my consciousness;
A warm, simple touch with the gentleness of
a butterfly's fluttering wings.

You are as colorful as a hidden patch of wildflowers
blooming with the sound of a rhythmic base guitar.

You are as beautiful
as some overpaid model;
yet you reflect the trait both inside and out.

Your calm demeanor is my lullaby,
and you're soft tawny hair is my haven.

You're eyes are the cool mist of an easygoing soul,
lost at sea, but not truly lost.

You smile and grin no matter the hour
or the situation.

Your forgiveness is that of a saint's, and
small details don't matter to you.

All the things I like about you,
I could go on for hours and hours.

You probably think this poem is both sappy and strange,
yet you still take the time to read it.

I hate love poems.
I always have.

But I'm writing this love poem for you.

August Emotions

Part One: Morning Mist

With the salty sea air
on this clear August morning,
comes a cool, refreshing mist.

It sprays on my face
as I wander this pebbly
imperfect yet beautiful beach.

I wince, for a moment
(salt-water is harsh
on a person's
eyes),

but then
I
smile.

Such occurrences make me happy, though
they also can cause pain.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part two: It is December, but...

It is December, but it feels like August.

The sleet is as light as a snowflake tear, yet the air
is smitten with frost.

Take me to
a tropical island,
where pomegranates
will bloom where we walk.

I'll tell you,
I'll tell you how I love you so,
and we'll drown in the mercury surf.

Tides
and currents are no such worries
in this dream of a place.

It is December, but it feels like August.
I wish I could tell you how I feel.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part Three: Heartbeat-heartbeat-heart-beat

If this is lust,
then that's nothing new.

If this is love,
then I'm just plain screwed.

My summer will fade into winter; I

know you will never love me too.

I have nothing.


I never will.


Just

sickness and

loneliness and

nothingness and

death

.


It's

so

unfair

.


Give me

the drama,

give me,

the pain

--I'd rather have that than
nothing at all.


So why

is it

that I do not receive such?


Do not recieve anything?


Just god being cruel?


I wonder.


I

want

to

die

.


That's

all

I

know

.


Dammit

all

to

hell

.

Nothingness Moon

I've nowhere to go; I've
no one to care for,
and not
a soul
to love.

I've
no-thing and no-one and no-body and no-thing

to keep me warm
within this storm.

Oh,
shudder,
shudder
with the yellow moon
in
your
dream.

The air is cold there beneath that yellow moon.

It is all a dream, but
the wind there blows so fierce
and
so cold.

So shudder, child,
shudder
when
you gaze upon the moon in your dream.

Yellow, sickly, Nothingness Moon, I
wish it would fade into dawn.

Ghosts on the Precipice

Something
amazing
--and odd, to say the least--

unites the ghosts standing on the precipice.

The ghosts are ghosts
--they cannot die;
they have long been deceased--

Yet they don't comprehend,
and are restless;

they cannot find peace.

Strange, compelling longings
--wouldn't you say?--
unite the ghosts standing on the precipice.

Forever Spring

Sunflower fields will bloom where I walk,
And the radiant petals will dance in the breeze.

The sun will shine like morning dew,
and we'll nothing to fear anymore.

I stand alone in the winter chill,
but I say, "T'will be okay,"

'Cause I know a time will come when I
can feel spring warmth on my face forever.

Eyes

It's kind of unfair,
how some people can walk

with their heads held high
and their eyes fixed dead-on.

I envied them
very
much, you see,

Because my eyes
were fixed
on the ground.

The Blessed Building

This country is no home of mine.

Come the first light of dawn,
I'm getting out.

This country is no comfort of mine.

I will perfect my craft,
and soar across the world
to fulfill my dream.

This whole country can burn;
this whole country can shrivel,
save that one blessed building
in the county of Anne Arundel.

Sacred salts lining its foundation,
defer my rage, my flame,
and protect my Sanctuary.

O, sacred scent of linens I know
too well,
keep the mem'ry crisp
and fresh
in my brain, so that

I may

still hear

it's echo from

far

far

away.

Lust

It lingers in
her fingertips;
it lingers in
her lungs.

It lingers in the corners
of her brain,
and (even now) it lingers
in her heart.

She breathes it out,
she breathes it in;

the stages of her ritual sin:

her intoxication,
her ailment, her plague;

her heaven, her hell,
played out upon the stage

locked away
in the darkest of dungeons
so that no one may see.

Clearly, these are are bridges
not to be crossed
in any state of conscious thought.

Clearly, these are bridges
not to be crossed
by any state of moral thought.

None of this matters to her
anymore.

Lust is addictive.
Lust is extreme.
Lust is comfort.
Lust is hers to behold.