From a distance designed for instant intimacy you begged me
to satisfy your earthbound,
dirt-grounded fallen-star needs with hands carved from the Moon.
Writhing between wildflowers and weeds
I danced my discretion on the definition of ecstasy;
pleasing your pleas with partial gravities—
like Atlas with sweating palms.
And I felt compelled to apologize as habit has trained me to
for loving you less like great lovers do, and more like
a high school “C” student who can’t remember the answers to the test.
But you kissed me mute.
We are daunted by the constant reminder—
from history books,  reality television shows and A.M. radios—
that, today, fame is a cannonball’s shot away
and insanity is as volatile as gunpowder.
But you,
You told me that beneath a sky bombarded by the broadcasts of bad news,
my skin made you convinced that the rest of the world were skeletons.
So under the thunder and crack of artillery facts,
for a moment we dawned the ignorant crowns of amnesia and
allowed ourselves to forget, as you let
your fingertips orbit the cores of my crater-faced palms.

We’ve both
(at the same time but never together)
mourned empty shells filling themselves with liquor and beer
at mid-morning barstools.

When we talk, we don’t need words to fill the space between smiles.
You’ve perfected the art of the gently bitten bottom lip,
while all I’ve got to offer is this goofy grin—
flashing a mouth full of teeth like typewriter keys,
craving to spell out in some brand new word,  
that I’ve never used and that you’ve never heard,
how wonderful you look today.

I bet you’ve left stronger men than me kissing sparks out of wall sockets;
craving something that shocks like your electricity,
but I’m just happy that your static touch has got my hair standing on end.
And even though I’ve never known the face of God,
You’ve given me belief in rebirth.
You make me feel funny and young:
Like Saturday morning cartoons.
Like midnight skinny dipping
And *** with socks on.

The truth is, you make me want to fall in love like it’s 1945.
I’ve been shipwrecked on war torn foreign banks.
Lullabied to sleep by the ratta-tat-tat of
machine gun harmonies and
the horseshoed hoof beats of in-sync cavalries,
and your portrait warming the breast pocket
of my jacket is the only thing reminding me
that there’s real music in a place called home.
And even though I’ve never been the gentleman
that the storybooks promised
when you were young,
someday I’ll wear a three-piece suit and learn the piano for you.

After three years digging in dirt,
weaving roots and planting seeds
in the most unnoticeable lingering looks.
thing I’ve learned it’s that gardeners
make the best lovers,
and together we’ve grown a grove out of un-regrettable mistakes,
midnight stairwells and
out-of-state license plates.
There are things about myself that were nameless until you
embroidered them a set of initials on the insides of my eyelids.
Now my rapid eye dreams read about the best parts of me –
and the long nights, they don’t idle so much
when I have something to be proud of.

when he was younger, people called him a fool
and he never made it to high school
his daddy was a hard workin' man
he taught his son how to work the land
from sunrise to sunset
crops rise from blood & sweat
the only thing he could really know
was how to make things grow
until he met a woman that stole his heart
she was the bright light in the dark
she sang pretty songs that he didn't understand
she'd cook and clean while he worked the land
he wanted to learn, she planted the seed
she brought home books, taught him to read
they were happy, but not yet complete
the house was missing the sound of little feet
and storybooks and lullabies
they longed to hear a baby's cries
soon she grew heavy, baby inside
one that would be her father's pride
she grew up in a house full of love
told she could be whatever she dreamed of
we sit here now, graduation day
and i listen to the words she has to say
"my Daddy was a farmer, he loved the way things grew
and he cared for the animals, always knew what to do
he always did everything to make sure his family would survive
my Mama was a dreamer, she kept our hope alive
and gave me wings, taught me to fly
to always give thanks, never question why
and i wouldn't be here right now
if they hadn't always knew somehow
that i was destined to do something more
this is love, it's what family's for"

Almost everything in the fairytales turned out to be true:
Horrible witches, nasty curses, dark demons, and guarded fortresses.
But princesses?
I thought they were figments of our imaginations.
And yet little girls read storybooks religiously, dreaming of winning over the Prince Charming.
Well ladies, you can keep your pristine and spotless princes.
I know where love and honour truly lies.

It is in the dragon's keep,
Where she is locked away and hidden.
The walls of her own heart blocking everyone out,
Burning everyone down who dared face her inner dragon.

But there is determination running through his veins,
Bravery in every bead of sweat,
A fighter's honour gleaming in his eyes.
Breaking down the barriers to find a damsel in distress, he did the strongest thing:
Held the wretch in his arms.
A soldier with the ability to find perfection in the weakest of souls.

My knight in ***** turnout gear,
The firefighter who discovered a princess.
My love who proved the reality of fairytales,
And found our happily ever after.

My mouth is full of moths
My words are not pretty
They do not flutter out with grace and ease
Instead
Twitching as they find their exit from my lips
They are not butterfly
With a name so smooth that it rolls off the tongue
I am not monarch
But
The decaying flesh it preys upon
The contrast between beauty and reality
I do not know why
Why
People like me are attracted to light
I guess it makes since
To swim towards brightness
When you've spent so much of your life in the darkness
Cocooned in between empty spaces
Nesting in silk spun from my own silence
I have spent months inside my shell
Learning how to find my own voice
Learning how to speak my own language
Hearing myself talk for 18 years but for the first time actually listening
Like moth
Touch sends me fleeting
Like moth
Attention back into hiding
I am not conspicous
Nor do I crave to be
Like caterpillar
We
Are all given blind hope
Told that someday
We will be noticed
Visible
Beautiful
But some spend so much time
Preparing for glory
That they forget storybooks lie
That in real life
The very hungry caterpillar
Who was promised butterfly
Becomes moth
Moth
What most see as ugly
And intrusive
Chewing holes in your finest clothing
Making home unwanted places
Moth is undesired
Butterfly is welcomed
Tell me why
One is invited in and the other shut out
Moth is not pretty
Moths lack ofbeauty
Is enough
To disregard it
All at once
Different is enough
To disregard all at once
Do not disregard me
Because I am not ideal
Because i am not fully painted winged beauty
We as a society only stop to see what catches the eye
Unable to notice the intricisies
Of darkness
So look a little closer
Try a little harder
Because if anything is to be known
It is that beauty
Is not
In the obvious.

Aluminum
Have you memorized your storybooks
How does it feel to catch on fire
You go where bugs go in the winter

Surface waves
How does it feel to be momentary
An oven timer
Or a sparkler

Sidewalk
How does it feel to be cracked open
To bleed to death
Blunt force trauma for 200

Rooftop
How's the autumn
The air's quite nice
But the ending is blurry

Oh winter
How does it feel to melt
To simply
Stop existing

Open ocean
How does it feel to drown
I thought there were bandaids
And you never even saw me

she was more than just the stuff of storybooks, she was one. hair long and light and breast-grazing, star-gazing wisteria-eyed girl. a mystery on spindly legs. a fawn I looked at once and never looked away from. her lemon-meringue demeanor, breathy bubble-bath speaking voice and short white dresses, sandy bare feet and a crinkled, secret smile were all I saw and I saw them as many times as she would let me, new eyes for her driftwood shell every day. she wasn’t from where I was, nor was she going where I went, but when I said hello, she flashed her sunstorm smile at me and buckled my knees. I loved her before we even met, and I knew she would never do the same because she didn’t need to; she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything, she was freewheeling, she was everybody’s sunrise, she had that smile.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and she told me her name one day, as the horizon painted her gold and stood her still in front of me. she told me where she came from, and where she was going, the gift of gifts: unwrapping her storybook from linen scarves on the sand that evening. this big and beautiful myth shrank to size: she was real. she was flawed. she had grown from sadness, she was scarred, and for that she was more beautiful still. she didn’t need me and she didn’t need anything and, what’s more, she wouldn’t have it. her doors were closed because she wouldn’t need anything, she couldn’t need anything, she was scared of needing anything like she wasn’t scared of anything else, and for that she was more beautiful still.

but I wrote the book on living impossible dreams. as I came around more often, she fell for me right back—my far-off wisteria sunstorm was quiet against my shoulder, breathing in sync with me and drifting off wrapped up in me, driftwood-intricate and real as no storybook before her next to me. she needed me, now, so new to her and laying her bare, stripping away the mystery on her gazelle legs and casting a fearful desperation on her long light hair. instead of needing nothing, she needed me more than I was there, just like she was afraid of. she couldn’t get enough. wrapped up in me so tangled she couldn’t see the horizon anymore. she fortified her quirks so they could stand alone, they grew overbright, she became them, they became all she was. a pretty driftwood shell, a mystery covering nothing but the hole her heart hides in, scared into paralysis by its own fevered motion.

what do I do with this new shell? this new shell that looks exactly like the first one but isn’t—her eyes are still wisteria and her laugh still air-light to the untrained ear, but my hands are too strong to touch her without cracking it. what do I do with this storybook I wrote myself into without permission, this fawn that refused captivity but now can’t remember she was ever free? what do I do with my hands? do I make them weak so I can hold her or do I leave her to herself? what’s the end of the story?

I wrote the book on living impossible dreams and sunstorms aren’t real. she smiles but now it’s only hollow. I can’t look at this beauty I destroyed. I walk away because I have nowhere else to go and I can’t watch her shrink. she was never mine. now she’s nearly nothing.

I think I have Peter Pan syndrome
Because I refuse to grow up

The difference is
I don't have a choice

Because Neverland is a place in storybooks
"The second star to the right and straight on till morning!"

But oh, how badly I still wish
to escape
to
**Neverland.

Objective and Subjective decided to hang out together at the park one day, to get to know each other and to try to become friends. Soaking up the views, and watching the people go by, they just sat and relaxed on a park bench.

Subjective broke the ice, first, and said to Objective:

It is getting a bit nippy outside isn't it? I forgot to bring my sweater with me.

Objective replied:

The daytime high will reach 67 degrees with a NW winds of 12 mph. Humidity is 68%. The weather is forcasted today for a 20% chance of rain, but it is not due until evening.

Subjective replied:

Yes, that is good to know...I guess. Now I know why I am cold. Hey, look over there on the right! Check out those roses! Boy oh boy! Did they ever come up colorful this year! I am getting a good whiff of them right now. Don't they smell like heaven?

Objective replied:  

I have never been to heaven, so I can not give you an accurate report. Roses, though, come from a thorn bearing shrub that typically produce fragrant flowers of various colors. Roses are native to north temperate regions. They are widely cultivated for unpractical reasons such as objects of adornment.

Subjective gave Objective a good sidelong glance like, Are you for real? There was a long period of silence as both appeared awkward in each other's company.

Subjective finally broke the silence and said:

The birds are really chirping up a storm today! Oh, I don't mind at all! They sure tweet nice and sweet! But these pigeons I can do without! I don't want them around me! You know what they say, don't you? Pigeons are just rats with wings!

Objective replied:

Actually, rainstorms are not caused by chirping of birds. Rain is produced when water is condensed into clouds from the water evaporation of oceans, lakes and rivers when the heat of the sun activates the process.  Furthermore, there is no such thing as a flying rodent. Even flying squirrels don't actually fly. Birds and rodents are two separate species that cannot produce offspring. Therefore, a rat with wings would be impossible.

Subjective was now beginning to get red in the face. Maybe this was a bad idea hanging out with Objective, after all. Could he really learn to understand him by getting to know him?

Both Objective and Subjective's attention was soon diverted by a tall, slender woman with blonde hair walking by. She now became the center of their focus. Wearing a form fitting blue dress, that came well above the knees, her shapely. long legs were quite appearant as she walked along in 5 inch, spiked heels.
  
Eagerly, Subjective whistled and said:

Wow! Would you get a look at her? What a knockout! Hey, Objective, I think you just saw heaven, after all!

Objective shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied:

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder. Back in history, it was the full figured woman who was upheld as a virtue of beauty. Her size represented a desired lifestyle of affluence. For example, in the Classical period of art, as well as the Rennaissance and Baroque periods, it was the more voluptuous female that was often the subject of an artist's rendering.

Now Subjective was really ready to blow smoke through his ears, like his blood pressure was going to go through the roof.  No way could he take this for much longer!

He replied:  

That's it! I tried! I did! I really did! But you know what? You are the most annoying being on the planet!

Objective looked stunned at Subjective's outburst of anger. So Subjective continued on in his verbal lashing.

He yelled out:

Yeah, you, Objective! You just don't get it, do you? You really get on my nerves! I can't stand being around you! It is so infuriating!

Objective was at a loss for word. He attempted to utter a reply but could not.    

Subjective added:

I got to get out of here before you drive me crazy! What are you anyway? A walking encyclopedia? A walking dictionary? For the love of Pete, talk like you're normal!!!

As Subjective was ready to storm off Objective meekly replied:

Inanimate objects, such as encyclopedias and dictionaries, cannot realistically have body limbs, nor can they function as living organisms....unless, of course, they are presentated in imaginery situations, such as cartoon figures in cinema, television, comic strips, or storybooks. Also,  I must tell you that I personally don't know anyone named Pete.......

Furious, Subjective got up and stomped off, muttering complaints to himself all the way down the street, leaving Objective sitting on the park bench, by himself. There Objective remained, wondering what he did that was so wrong.



THE MORAL of my LAME story is..........................

OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE JUST DO NOT BELONG OR GO TOGETHER!!!

The little kids we used to be,
still play like the kids we were,
but now it’s graveyards instead of a playground.
Instead of dress-up costumes,
it’s makeup lathered to our faces,
we must be like those perfect pictures in magazines.
We play boyfriends and girlfriends instead of hopscotch,
anorexia instead of basketball.
Instead of storybooks, it’s facebook posts telling us
we don’t deserve to live.
We used to wear those colorful sillybandz,
and trade them with each other,
but now it’s scars from a razor
we wish we could take off.
It was always begging for seconds of ice cream,
but now it’s sneaking away to throw up the
little amount of food they make you eat.
Instead of staring at a summer campfire
waiting to roast marshmallows,
we stare at the fire waiting to burn ourselves.
Instead of angry first graders getting into a fistfight,
the anger now directs the punch to ourselves.
We used to sneak Halloween candy,
trying to stuff ourselves,
but now you sneak pills,
trying to overdose and hoping for death.
We used to play so freely,
we thought it’d always be like that.
But now we run among graveyards,
the bones of the ones we left behind
clutter the passages.
And we’re still children playing games
with the worlds, but the stakes are higher,
we wonder if we’ll make it.
It’s just a roll of the dice on this graveyard
playground.

I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.

I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.

I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.

I must take not,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.

From always have my story books ever spoke,
urging me to live life with one phrase;
Memento Mori, a simple Latin phrase I had known,
from the beginning of my universe that I posses,
to the society I once slept upon, have I ever known,
that the sky is always sapphire,
the grass is always emerald,
and the blood is ONLY but ruby.

Whereas my storybooks told me, Memento Mori,
I will eventually whither away like the plants I was reluctant to plant,
to watch them die away,
so I could grasp it's corpse, and crush it's ashy substance.
I grin at that notion,
the concept of me having power, to crush,
my homicidal grin, illuminating malicious vibes,
only to feel guilty for I am enjoy their pain.

Although my storybooks, had always said Memento Mori,
they were books of a hero to zero, a man of a demon,
they had always spoken to me, their lustful eyes,
entrancing me from an angel's call, and telling me the phrase;
tu fui ego eris
"As you are, I was; as I am, so you shall also be"
They were right, for I had sinned like the killers in my book,
just like them, and they were just like me,
and we both could not avoid death, just as out gravestones had said.

I had refused to accept Memento Mori,
I refused to acknowledge the emerald that I had stood on, what it was I could never,
the sapphire I had not known, in the heavens only my piping plover knew,
and the ruby, has I always felt, warm, as it was around my feet,
only to be purified, and realize no one else was different.

We all murdered our complexities.

filled a book with your ink
and tried to erase it
but the words remained
like little stains upon my skin
reminders that i'd never get away
but one day i became aware
that i had been reading the last chapter
over and over again
as if the book could never end
as if i just denied the existence of the final words
but as i struggled to erase your name
it instead became smeared
an ugly reminder of what i was covering up
so i tore out your name from every page
and i burned those chapters
and with them, my shame
my hatred for myself
because i realized there are endless pages
still white and untouched
some, full of pencil sketches
that are easily removed
oh that i could fill those pages someday
with ink and flowers
to draw the joy that i imagine
to seek beauty
to be, to live, to love
write me a story i want to relive

Colors spin and whirl around
Lines begin to blur
In the distance and
Something pushes
Against me
Pounding incessantly
I’ve had enough and
It won’t stop
Up ahead sadness washes over
And carries away colors
Diminishing
Leaving grey streaks
Bleeding
And blistering
In the evening rain
Darkening the sky
Painting it the color
Of your heart
Remember when
Happiness was reality
Not a memory from storybooks
Deceptively simple
Seemingly easy
Just out of reach
Out of range
Out of sight
Elusive
Intangible
And the harder I grab on
The more I want

Our generation has become so use to temporary feelings, things and people
we aren’t surprised when there isn’t a sequel.
But it’s sad really, how accustomed we’ve become,
detachment has become a rule of thumb.
I don’t want temporary feelings, things or people,
I want to be surrounded by loved ones when I’m standing in that cathedral.
I want forever, like in the storybooks
but it doesn’t have to be a fairytale like with Peter Pan and Hook.
I just want something real,
something that in the depths of my soul, I can feel.
Someone through thick and thin,
there for me when I lose, and when I win.
It won’t be perfect, and definitely not easy
but we’ll have each other, that’s the dose of 'cheesy.'
Our generation is use to temporary feelings, things and people
they don’t expect a sequel.
They’ve come to expect everything to end,
the idea of temporary is the new trend.
And it’s really sad to see,
this generation missing out on so much that could be.

Slowly,
we are all going insane,
slowly, but surely, we are all slipping down the same path,
some pushed to the brink sooner than others,
some farther behind.
We all trudge towards our doom,
funneled and guided to the right area
by the hands of our society.

The end has been predicted many times,
in different ways, by different people:
many a stray asteroid has been foretold,
one that will sink it's rocky teeth into the earth,
and make it explode.

It seems like the end may finally be coming,
people have been pushed so far, that they have cracked.
Their minds have broken,
their thoughts have jumbled,
they don't know who they are.

They are zombies,
literally and figuratively.
Zombies.
The ones who have been consumed by society
and spit back out again,
forced to live in a world that they want no part of,
so they attack,
and,
much like the zombies from storybooks,
they have this strange appetite,
that is full of a thirst for others.

These people care not for the world,
or their own bodies even,
no, they don't care.
They rip themselves apart,
tear into their own flesh,
and escape reality,
finally,
after succumbing to their fate.

The world,
pushed against unseen boundaries,
forced to the brink of insanity,
has finally spilled over,
and now,
we must fight the zombies
inside ourselves.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 13, 2014)


Time flies around a storybook story.
After storytime, it’s time to go to sleep.
After sleep, tomorrow begins another story.
Inside the storybook, every picture tells a story.
Not everybody agrees what that story is.
Narrative is just an illusion anyway,
One made necessary for the operation
Of storybooks, some with only pictures telling
Stories, some with impossible surmising captions.
First think, then speak. Unless you don’t believe
In talking bears or thneeds. When you grow up,
Narratively speaking, you should grow out the-need
To believe in a happy end-middle-beginning.
You should rip up every page in the storybook
And throw its pieces up into the air.
The interesting story is how it all falls down.
First things first. Why does this always feel
Like the ruse of 52-card pickup?

I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.

I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.

I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.

I must take note,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.

Her lips were full; her curves more-so
Her sensitive skin was blushing
This siren's song grew louder but
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips were red but bitten white
Her eyes were still and unblinking
She made the air feel ever hotter
Too hot for rational thinking
Her lips formed words and melodies
As my eyes traced her bone structure
I wanted to kiss her; she wanted it too
But society yelled "don't touch her"
Her lips were beautiful I wanted them so
But she would always be forbidden
An act so sweet and innocent
Is an act never to be forgiven
Her lips grew nearer; mine did too
'Til our mouths were nearly brushing
This siren's song grew louder, still
The world told me "no touching"
Her lips kissed mine so calm and chaste
She saved a damsel in distress
But storybooks don’t tell the tales
Of a girl and her beautiful princess

These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?

Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars

Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches

Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote

Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:

        “Darkness brings uninvited guests
        And our bodies are bare
        Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
        Of life that we all can share.”

Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****

There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters

And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens

There is always a song
that fits—a blanket,
it hands us—
to disappear beneath.

But also, a
a warm breath, rising up
into a cloud—For us.
We make time to stare.

Sometimes melting,
burning, freezing—opening
honeycomb pores until
storybooks fall in and we’re
so full of everything that we stiffen
and burst with it all.

Often though, glassy goosebumps,
they raise—the ridges pull away,
stretching, until we peel and shed
crinkly skins and shells—

More naked than before,
and scared—enticed to
the flowers left by
coal horses.

Piano music on Friday nights
German Chocolate cake for dessert ,
Candle light
Sugary , Plum wine with Cherry -
tobacco in a favorite pipe
Faraway lightning in Alabama skies
Pecan brittle , Storybooks , Fairytales
Gin Rummy , carrying young'uns to bed
The final smoke from the front porch rail -
in the company of a million stars
Trying to work a bit of magic on a red guitar
Time is a rambler indeed , a loner , impatient -
locking eyes with no one
One last song as the wind precedes the storm -
once more
Settle in for another day
A night then a few more years
So forth and so on* .....

There is yours
and there is mine
there is no us
like in storybooks

I am young
and you are restless
I am reckless
and you are wise

To the outside
we might be combined
but there is yours
and there is mine

Our stalemate love
is a sour tragedy
bitter on our lips
and tongues

Because there is yours
and there is mine
and what we have
we can't combine

You are the restless soul
that has been aged
and I am the youth
that is your pastime

Stalemate love
for stalemate lives -

How can something so fair
be so -

The amphetamines made me god
A street corner king known across town
I feel blue as the pavement moves beneath my feet
I feel gone as the moon comes on
That flickering flourescent light
Down between the streetlights
The record scratch like a Cadillac
I've mistaken for a Buick
The cigarette flick from his window
Spins through the night like a pinwheel
Exploding sparks on the asphalt

Choked on exhaust
Thoughts of you walk beside me
Etched on my bones is your name
I wouldn't call it living
Just existing
Cars headlights sirens backseats
My head is spinning as he asks for change
"No but here's two cigarettes."
That ought to get him through the night
You got a light
On upstairs?
You got a light?
Someway for me to see when the streetlights stop
The road takes on the country
The dividing lines turn to stones and sticks
The sound of night as cows fall asleep
The fields are full of mushrooms that glow caps in the moonlight
I used to pick them at the edge of the forest
I once was happy with the thought of "maybe" having you
Now I don't do much of anything but **** myself quickly
With no one to stop me
With no light
Somewhere between the star-choked horizon and the sea
You fall asleep with another
Your heart gives a flutter when he says your name
When you kiss his neck
When you fall asleep
Dreaming seamless dreams of children and sunlight
Something in storybooks once known as true love

The water was quiet and unruffled:
Though intemperate winds blew on it
Ne’er once did it ever really stir
And we got so used to its pervasive presence

In line with global trends everywhere
We took notice only when loud waters bubbled
       Like wayward children we scoffed
       When delectable words of wisdom
Wafted like therapeutic mist out of Wisdom Well

But now that the well is empty and dry
Our deprivation begins in earnest
And soon, very soon, nostalgia will whip us
One and all till we learn the bitter lesson:

That second chances belong to storybooks only;
Now that this veritable repository of true wisdom
Is in other dimensions our dilemma cries out
Who amongst us shall quench our thirst
Now that the water in the well has dried

the storybooks never prepared you
for someone like me.
i am neither knight nor maiden
but i can try to be both,
can try to drape myself in
armor while i wait for you  
to rescue me.
you’re digging through me for
your hero and your beacon
but all you’ll find is questions
and contradictions; a game of
mix-and-match between
what’s pounding in my head
and coursing through my body;
a constant war between
what i need and what i’m given
and baby, this is no man’s land.
watch where you step.

You are art manifested in my eyes.
The glow of the camera
tells of soft skin and heart.

Oh, you are a papery beauty,
mystic and fair
as the childish storybooks
and all of their impossible colour.

Long hours I spend,
planning what is to be said
between us.

I imagine my confessions
spilling out in perfect eloquence.
I imagine a connection beyond
the regions of my past experience

and all of the poverty of the present.

You are the unknowing and benign
conquest in my life. Oh,
how I place in you
the catalyst for my escape.

LOVE
Is magical, my mother used to say
It will
T
R
A
N
S
F
O
R
M
You and leave you
b r e a t h l e s s
But she
Didn’t tell me
That love is the gap between your thighs
That love is the entanglement of
skin on skin
She promised a feeling
Not a rough touch
Of someone who just wants to use you for
A night
What is love
But long-term lust
That will teach you
Brokenness does not mean
You are torn in half
It just means you thought for a moment
That love
Existed
Outside of storybooks
And beyond the depth
Of a one night ****.

Portents

Just a stamp an impression briefly emboldened formed in darker green you are but the portal of dreams
Telling my heart of those things that can and should be the burgeoning of vast meaningful wonders that
Shimmer long ago they were told in storybooks now they are fused as electrical force burning singing
The mind allegory befits you with your stage here you are the perpetual page desire strikes stone the
Emerging statue reaches untold depths reveals sacred expression the many sides of you that are the
Yearnings of dreams that seek total enrichment against the back drop of insidious want and lack a smile
That creates worlds with borders do not the trees bow to such glory that your eyes alone hold every
Man holds these immortal conceptions gem studded treasures nothing has this form can anything be
Captured given life that possesses the very essence of laughter the flow of life bursting the enthralling
Wisp that from silence forges lives with volumes’ language a bell tolls with no sweeter sound it is love
Beheld and known from the poverty of human life riches explode within common steps divine rewards
Beckon from every pore we look and see the self centered interest that disdains all things when at arms
Length only through imagination can you delve into the reality of your world a beggar truly is a king
With all that lies before him and if so then common man is a participant of God if only we could reach
Out and unfurl the gold instead of a simple down trodden prisoner we would be deliriously happy if we
Could only see the true and indescribable carpet that flows ever so wide in each of our lives it is only the
Foretelling of even a greater and more noble future that awaits

(10/11/12)

When this chemo pain is -OH SO STRONG
And you feel you can’t hang on
When the pain racks your body
And you’re feeling weak and sorry
When your breathe is becoming weaker
That’s when you pray to your keeper.
There is nothing that you can’t do
If to your heart you are true.

I have never traveled your road
But in my heart I sing your song.
I look around and I see the eyes of strength
Which to me you have lent.

I see the eyes of hope - not of despair
Cause I see so many people who really care.
I see people of fame and wealth
And of people who search for your health.

“We are a reflection of you
You are not a reflection of us”
But in each other we put our trust.

Your eyes are storybooks of hopes and dreams
And visions dancing in your head
And the road that you will tread.

I see GOD planting your seeds in the ground
That soon enough the  cure will be found
He wants to see the same things as you
And your prayers to SAINT JUDE will help you thru.

© L . RAMS

You hide behind crystal doors and glass walls,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of what you have only read in storybooks:
Perfection, doll-like and still.
Two lovers, in an embrace of pure harmony.
A young girl, her life ahead and the will to live and grow.
Only happiness and promise of days to come.
Then, there is a crack in the glass.
No more charades. This is real life.
Look to your left and see the lovers battle.
At your right, watch the girl die, slowly.
Straight ahead are the noose and blade, waiting for flesh and life to rip and take.
You walk toward the beckoning Reaper, only to be stopped
At the glass.
Look
One more time.
Your life is before you.

Imagine a road.
That led to anywhere you wanted it to lead to. Anywhere.
Even to a place from storybooks and make-belief.
Even to a place you made inside your head.

Now imagine a person.
Walking down that road.
Or running. Or flying. Or zig-zagging up and down in vague caterpillar-like motions.
But there's a person. And there's a road.
And the road leads to someplace else.
And Someplace Else is far away.
And Far Away is where you need to be.

I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not ready for the next phase of life
In which my resentments will need to be justified
And yes, sometimes I put in all the effort I can going in
the wrong direction.
I am not quite ready to accept that there will always be
Someone better because by jove, if my storybooks and
TV shows have taught me anything, it is that everyone
Is different (and with a limited number of capable people
in the world in any given age, one of them HAS to be
better than everyone).
I don’t know if I can handle maturity and responsibility
And yes, not all adults do, but those are the least desirable kind.
I don’t think I will ever be able to comprehend or
accept the fact that from here on out, everything
Every single thing will be different than what it has been before.
I can’t go back to being a child playing, blissfully unawares, on a playground
I will only continue to grow, and never
Be the me that I used to be.

Everything that you dream about in those playground days
Becomes less tantalizing the closer it comes to reality.
I will never live in my parent’s house (in this way) again
I will never feel the way I do when I roam Rockville again
I will never walk through the halls of my high school the way I do now
Never have the same schedule, the same comfort
Again. My worry I suppose is not with the void itself—
More of a concern that it will not be
filled with anything as pure or delightful or
Lovely as youth.