Bickerings

Every night clutches me in sweet misery and despair,
while I toss and turn in bed,
mumbling words that strung to a prayer,
wishing to those who cared, I was dead.

And then I thought of you again,
and how you used to call and cry,
and what it was to feel your pain,
and how I tried to try, with each fallen lie.

I swore once that I was in love,
and then I swore I knew none.
It was easy to fall and look above,
to see the moon, still, undone.

Your eyes haunted me in darkness,
and in only dreams we met to kiss.
We're all lost in the wilderness,
gambling hopes to a flash of bliss.

As morning filled the room with light,
the shadows of memory began to hide.
I saw death dressed in white,
reaching her hand out to guide.

I dreamed no more,
as we begun to apart,
to be pulled into some open door,
in an audition to read a different part.

Catching up...

My days have been reduced to waking up late, watching crappy television shows, reading books, working on my book, drinking copious amounts of beer, looking for a job, writing bad poetry, occasional smoke haze, SMS drivels, fucking Facebook, late night Jim Morrison songs, ghosts from the F train, rough dreams of school, Neil Gaiman's imagination, return of her beauty and her eyes, unfolding mystery and simple lies...

The Measure of Crime (edited)

Ordinary questions seem trivial and boring.
My mind is a fish net tonight; dreams are blue as water.
Every morning a crow croaks horror.
And they are bringing us in for the slaughter.

There are voices on the hill that must be met,
Along the old twisted cunning streams.
Sometimes a light glows among the trees,
And I hear you whisper from your dreams.

Of madness and in hope.
The flickering dance of shadows.
The tunes of forgotten lore.
The gardener comes to sow your woes.

When I awake, I think of Edgar Allan Poe.
I see him walking around the grave.
His misery, your beauty and a question on life.
And I lose you in an ocean wave.

Ode to the Romantics

Falling in love was once easy and cheap,
But all you taught me was how to weep.
And now there's a price to pay,
And now there are words you must say.

Yet each to our true we sin,
Of empty hearts we carelessly win.
But your love is the dust of an old book,
And I a thief, who took to took.

If only you let meaning meet with reason,
Your smile could save this season.
But you sit in that room of despair,
With shawls of sadness that you choose to wear.

What glory is now to be craved,
And what misery is now to be saved?
In one moment you could so easily care,
And in another, you wouldn't dare.

You may have played with the moon,
And slept till every noon.
But one June, someday soon,
You will know what it's like to croon.

But I'm a poet, so I suffer,
But each thought of you makes it tougher.
And it isn't that you know no joy,
For you I'll still be a glass toy.