There are not enough words in the world
the regret that I have for hesitation in my life
and the sense of finality that inhibitions provide
when they do not allow dreams to materialize.
You have to seek out the desires in your mind
before the opportunity passes you by.
The art of misinterpretation is a delicate one.
I know because I thought that I could figure out everything important
about everyone I met
without ever really talking to any of them,
but that gave me nothing
other than regret.
I felt the lack of truth in those words
long before the first syllable left my lips,
and yet they seemed necessary
to assert my stance,
solidify my position,
and make it okay for you to hate me again.
These are within everything - the underlying beauties
of every aspect of this life.
To notice them is to recognize
that each new day is an epiphany,
from the first glint of sunlight,
to the last star in the sky.
I wanted you the most
until the first time I had you,
and then I craved you like oxygen -
in such a way it seemed my major organs would simply cease function
without your breath in my body.
Somewhere between those incessant whines,
just dot your T's and cross your I's
and hope like hell that the best things in life
will come before
you stop waiting for more
It saddens me to say
that each new day's meaning
has been reduced to deducing
that you are no less deserving
of this blood and oxygen
than anyone else.
I just watch their lips move,
with such pitiful refrain,
such hesitance to release any inkling of true feeling
because our insides seem so delicate,
so open to attack
that we must guard them with each breath
and I almost feel a drop roll down my cheek,
for I will never know them,
they will never know me,
and these chances will be gone one day.
Time is passing memories like sand grains,
fading into perpetual dreams,
indemnified by brief illuminations;
standouts in a world where all is same.
In my mind, you burn brighter every day.
I had a dream once
of a translucent figure,
dancing with the wind like a feather,
falling towards me with such recklessly natural grace.
I was never sure what that meant,
but I watch you now and think
maybe it was an omen -
not of love, but adoration
and appreciation for the opportunity
to participate in the development of beauty.
You bring out the side of me
that is buried deeply beneath
the cover of my presentation.
That gives me cause to smile again.
It lets me know I'm alive again.
It shows me I can still feel something beautiful.
I always forget the familial titles,
the syllables that do not seem so important
because family is a love always dear,
which harbors the words that I refuse to hear
and I wish, just once, that those lips would sear shut.
Some days I am beyond content to be
another tiny fish in this black, vacuous sea,
but when it all goes blue -
oh that bright, magnificent blue,
you could feel free to come out and see me.
See me for the greatness that I am somehow,
and I would not hide myself from you.
There are charcoal skies
above where you reside,
and the one thing in mind
when I see as I drive by
is that dark clouds abound
seem so appropriate now.
That is what you are in my life.
I went to visit your grave today
and, on my long drive home,
I felt the energy of your entire life
in about five miles of road.
I only mourn because you had not moved beyond that yet.
Spotting you from across the room
at a spring bash I don't want to be at,
with tamper-evident friends who barely know me by name,
and a sullen smirk that fits me better than any designer cloth,
I am afraid that your draw means more than a smile,
or a bashful glance from afar,
but the way it pulls me forward is beyond my control.
To cater to the poetic musings
which profess the most profound truth
and seek out each undeniable aspect of every person,
is the haunting obligation of the unfulfilled writer.
This is about knowing the pointlessness and unoriginality
of everything you do,
but pressing the pen forth anyway.