What is time anyway?

Just a concept of life that we live by,

a series of numbers, counting down,

limiting our time together, our time apart,

a string of numbers that we will all

live and die by.

But what would happen if I said,

Screw you and your time,

and lived by my own set of numbers?

At the end of my night, with a glass

of whiskey nestled warm in my hands

I wouldn’t sit there and measure my life, love

or happiness in a matter of numbers.

No, perhaps it is just me, that I fear

becoming a walking suit, a mindless numerically

driven droid chasing after this American Dream.

What a nightmare.

No, I’m still a dreamer,

where I am more fascinated by the

colors and words in life, not these

insignificant, dreadful numbers.

These numerical monsters ripped us apart once,

and I won’t let that happen again.

So stop looking at the clock for a day,

surround yourself with love, beauty,

even darkness, let it swallow you whole.

Measure your life in smiles, kisses, hugs,

heart breaks, scars and struggles.

Whatever you do, mark my words:

I will never let those goddamn ticking hands

take you away from me again.

Some nights I lie awake

and dream about what it would

be like to never wake up again.

It sounds like a morbid daydream,

this I know to be true, but it’s not

the idea of romanticizing death,

no, but the mystery and bewilderment

that the concept of death brings me.

And perhaps it is just me, but I think

about death in the strangest way, as it

is all around us, and unfortuntely

it’s an inevitable conclusion we can’t escape.

The thought of life ending, the absence

of rhythmic heart beats, of fluttering eyes,

is almost too much to bear at times,

and at other times, it could sound

like the sweetest solution.

But I think about what awaits me,

the darkness that will consume my mind,

because I believe that this world is so

brilliantly beautiful, there just has to be

more waiting for me on the other side.

I wonder who will remember me, and how

they will retell stories of my existence,

have I made an impact on someone’s life

without ever knowing the pain or love I created?

Will my words surpass my breathing, will these

tattered pages survive my demise to change lives?

And you, I wonder mostly how you will remember

me and the nights we shared together, whispering

our secrets to the humid summer nights

wishing on airplanes we mistaken for stars,

and tangling ourselves in our spider web of sheets.

I sometimes dream of death in the most beautiful ways,

wondering, hoping there will be more beauty on the other side.

He called me his sunflower,

said I reminded him of

those remarkable flowers

always caught half way

between living and dying.

My little spurts of happiness

the glow reflected off

my smile, the brightness of

my heart lighting this whole town.

But then there are my sudden

plagues of sadness, depression

where I remain in bed

for days on end, wallowing

in self-loathing, that’s

why I’m a sunflower.

I notice the beauty

in this world, but soemtimes

I allow the ugly, miserable

truths to take possession

of my mind, filling my

heart with hate and misery.

Sometimes I feel like

I’m wasting away when

there is no beauty in this

empty world to look forward to.

I know I can’t be alone,

at some point we are all caught

in this real life purgatory,

but sometimes you just can’t

help but to be a sunflower.

Love is in the air,

I saw that printed upon a sign once,

what a strange image to create

in a clouded mind, such as mine.

As if love is something that simply

drifts with the summer breeze,

an entity you can breathe in, manifest it,

oh, if only it were that simple.

To me, love is a matter which cannot

be created nor destroyed,

we cannot artlessly embody the

vast beauty and power of such an emotion.

No, but I feel it, immersed beneath

my painted skin, buried in the lining of these

hallowed, dry bones, what a wonderful

sensation it is to feel love.

It fills the room, and weighs heavily

in our chests, as if there is a fullness

to our hearts, and often times we

wear it for all to see on our sleeves.

And it’s there if you listen carefully,

closing your tired eyes, listening to the

silent smiles, lingering thick within the

humid air between lovers.

Trust me, it’s there.

Love is something which cannot be explained,

just an emotion to embrace, as it refuses

to be contained or controlled,

and how lucky we are, how serendipitous

we feel to fully grasp the concept of

being loved, and giving our love in return.

Isn’t there a sense of beauty

in all of this pain, this heartache?

A knowledge, an awareness,

something just so blatantly obvious

that you have never thought of before

and it hits you right between the eyes,

as if it has been there all along,

you were just too blind to see.

But you weren’t blind, you just

couldn’t imagine there could be

pain this strong, this rising, swelling

tension deep within your chest,

you can feel it grinding your bones

to dust, and sucking every last

ounce of air from your cracked lips.

You never fathomed, not even in

the darkest corners of your nightmares

that this feeling could be real,

but it is.

And when you’re overwrought

with these constant reminders of the

pain, those old photographs, the

letters written, the passion and whipsers

trapped within the walls, it feels as if

you will never escape this shade of grey.

That perhaps this is what life has come to,

just a pertpetual state of sadness

that you will never escape.

But you manage to get out, and realize

the pain has changed you, transformed

a fragile heart into a stronger, more beautiful

person, someone you cant recognize.

And you think, that you could have never

become this strong, this passionate

without the pain, it has made you stronger.

And you see the beauty in suffering,

that without the lowest points of depression,

the darkness creating a home for itself in the

rotted void in your chest, you would never have

this appreciation of life and love.

So bring on the pain, bring on the heartache,

I’m ready for you.

Love is in the air,
I saw that printed upon a sign once,
what a strange image to create
in a clouded mind, such as mine.
As if love is something that simply
drifts with the summer breeze,
an entity you can breath in, manifest it,
oh, if only it were that simple.

To me, love is a matter which cannot
be created nor destroyed,
we cannot artlessly embody the
vast beauty and power of such an emotion.
No, but I feel it, immersed beneath
my painted skin, buried in the lining of these
hollowed, dry bones, what a wonderful
sensation it is to feel love.

It fills the room, and weighs heavily
in our chests, as if there is a fullness
to our hearts, and often times we
wear it for all to see on our sleeves.
And it’s there if you listen carefully,
closing your tired eyes, listening to the
silent smiles, lingering thick within the
humid air between lovers.
Trust me, it’s there.

Love is something which cannot be explained,
just an emotion to embrace, as it refuses
to be contained or controlled,
and how lucky we are, how serendipitous
we feel to fully grasp the concept of
being loved, and giving our love in return.

The best part of me?
Oh, that is something which
I keep as a secret,
hidden, and tucked away
reserved only for someone
who will take their time,
wait patiently, open their
chest, expose their tired heart,
one that matches mine,
and stays with me.

I can promise you this,
that you will always find new
things that could possibly be
considered the best of me,
and I’ll never confess which
one is true.
But you can never giving up hope,
please, stick around and see
that there will always be
surprises, mysteries and beauty
in store thanks to me.

And if you take this chance,
this lovely and dangerous challenge,
I promise a lifetime of breakfast in bed,
roller coasters and whiskey after a
terrible day at work,
a heart that will always beat soft
melodies for you,
passion between the tangled sheets,
and soft kisses before bed each nigh.

I can promise you this and more,
if you can be patient and wait and see
the best, the loveliest part of me.

I am a writer.
A creator of beauty with
the way I twist, shape and
manipulate words to express
my deepest and most wonderful dreams.

I am a poet.
No, my words don’t always rhyme,
and I don’t follow all of the rules
of form, structure, or grammar.
I color beyond the lines,
think outside of the box,
and dream when I’m awake.

I love the way I can play with words,
how I can change meaning and embody
emotions, near or far with the way
I shape these letters I call my own.
I fell in love with the ink blots of
tattered and torn notebooks, I grew
found of the art that is expression.

These words flow so graciously
from my heart, so take these words,
read them, breathe them in, press this
page to your lips and drink the ink.
This is my my profound
and passionate explanation to the
simple confession I keep in my heart.

I am a writer, hear me roar.

Just give up.
Those words escaped
his lips so effortlessly,
I never imagined those
three simple rhythms could
invite such an unknown
sadness to my heart.

I had confessed to him
my mind had gone blank, that
the beautiful words I once
spoke had vanished, and
while I have been searching
to find them again, desperately
seeking inspiration,
I had conjured nothing more
than a sea of crumpled white
pages littering my floor.

Just give up.
He said it again, after
shrugging his heavy shoulders,
and slamming the door.
It shook the hinges, and the
sound still rattles my bones,
I closed my eyes and sat there,
thinking about how easy it
would be to simply give up.
But the thought of never picking
up a pen, scribbling my thoughts,
emptying my cluttered mind, and
confessing my darkest dreams,
was a momentary nightmare.

Maybe the delicate and wonderful
words have escaped my mind lately,
but I will never give up my search
to bring them back to me.

Take on a dream,
I’m doing that every day.
I dream every waking moment,
I feel that the difference
between dreams and
reality is a bit hazy,
and sometimes I can’t
differentiate between the two.

But isn’t that the
beauty of living?
I dream in color,
in beautiful words
and I allow myself
to become caught up
in the magic and
mystery of life.

Do you only dream
when your heavy lids
turn this room into
shadows and welcome
the silence?
Please, tell me that
I’m not alone and
admit to me in the
most beautiful way

that I’m not the only
dreamer left in this world.

Yesterday, I walked the
busy streets of the city,
bumped shoulders with strangers
who wouldn’t dare budge from
their track, and the screeching
of tires shook me deep within
my dried bones.
The stale stench of cigarettes
and garbage that had been
baking in the miserable sun
lingered around my nose,
I choked on the poisoned air.

There was a homeless man
sitting beside his cardboard
kingdom, draped in tattered
rags and his shoes were
almost just soles and laces.
He stopped me, asking if I
would buy one of his trinkets.
They were origami creatures
fashioned out of magazine
covers, I saw the sadness
and hunger on his face, but
sadly, I didn’t have any money.

Well, today feels beautiful, and
if you can describe it to me,
the treasure is all yours.
He tilted his head, and I noticed
his lack of sight, it brought
tears to my selfish eyes.

“The sun, the burning goddess
hangs perfectly among the
clouds, shining, beaming her
beautiful face to warm our skin.
There are flowers that grow
between the cracks in the
sidewalk, not even the concrete
nightmare can stop the
daisies from dreaming.
Sometimes the most beautiful
days are those we cannot see,
but we feel them deep within
our heart and soul, making us
feel that we are not so alone.”

It’s strange how a man with
nothing, not even sight, could
make me see the beauty of life.

He saw the world differently
than I had ever imagined.
We laid there in the grass
staring up at the empty
black sky, I felt the weight
of nothingness, and heard
the deafening silence
of the light breeze.

He said the sky wasn’t black,
but shades of blues, swirling
twisting and blending together.
He said that colors speak
if we would only wait to listen.
I wish I could see colors
the way that he does, maybe
then I could find some
beauty in this world.

He smiled to the sky,
while lightly holding my hand,
never once did he consider
the world to be ugly, miserable,
empty, as I see it.
How could he capture so much
beauty and pain in those
shades with the simple
stroke of a hand?

There was nothing spectacular
that happened this night,
no love story to be written
but I’ll never forget the way
he revealed his heart to me.

It was almost as if he spoke
in the loveliest of colors.

I pray for sleep,
for dreams of beauty,
inspiration, and the
most perfect words
that will explain the
screaming in my mind.

But I’m as empty as this
heavy handle of whiskey,
sucked dry like this
smoking filter balancing
between my yellow fingers.
I want to cut these veins
and cross my fingers that
words will flow instead
of that crimson liquid.

I want to put these thoughts,
so crowded and chaotic
trapped in my mind, into
words so you can feel
the weight of my pain,
feel the moisture of the
tears I refuse to release,
the pressure of hurt, stacking
like cement bricks over
these past miserable years.

I wish these words, those
so distant and alien, would
visit me when I drink myself
away from reality each night.

But I no longer dream, only
find myself trapped in a
nightmare that’s become my life.

He was a simple boy raised in
an average size town, nothing too
extravagant, but he was comfortable.
His life, so mediocre and what
society would call “normal,”
he was so painfully bland.
And she was the opposite,
maybe that’s why they fell in love.

She was an artist, creating beauty
bringing life to objects with the
swift and delicate movements of
her hands, he fingers became
quills and brushes,
she colored his world.

She found him to be a blank canvas
he saw her as a brilliant portal
to a world he only dared explore
in his most secret of dreams.

They embraced differences, she
taught him to kiss with a passion
he had never felt before, and he
taught her patience and how to find
beauty and inspiration in silence.
They fought with conviction, rarely,
but they were simply two average
people, there was no movie, song,
or book written about their love.

They weren’t out of the ordinary,
just two strangers, like you and me
who fell in love, and they didn’t need
to be forever immortalized in history.
She was his sun, and he, her moon,
and that was enough for them.

I embrace the storm
raging deep within these
bones, soaked in whiskey
and angst. I grab hold of
the concept of beauty and
pain in each moment.
I invite the chaos all around,
somehow it astonishes
my mind, and my tired heart.

I sing to the empty bottles
kiss the dried filters
until my throat runs dry.
I think of you when I
look towards the barren sky.