II not finished

molesting my mind with self-stirred misery
made from scratch by these two paws
scraping and clawing at the oak door that never budges
heavy wood framed in translucent glass
where I can see the foyer and drool,
mouth agape at the haunting paradise
knowing it doesn't take much merely to knock
just to lose the sense of devastation,
let it fall, shed of skin,
you're always on the other side,
finding veils to lift, conjuring up walls, sanctioning airways,
building divides in unconquered territory
that will never be subjugated, and never any less hazy,
these paws stand back, halting to all action,
never moving towards, just being still
stagnant, and untouched

not finished

There lies a multi-faceted fascination right above our senses
where we speak in terms of "I", and "I", and "I",
and I often wonder how full of selfs I really am.
We think in patterns, in aspects, in truths and untruths,
but I fall down stairs of astonishment,
and am astounded when confronted 
with miles of (wo)men strewn about 
unladen with such hopes. 
but I watch you from the grass, 
as you sit above on clouds 
and speculate just how long I can take this longing 
to reach you at this rate

One that I will never have

my palms are made of gasoline,

made to interpret souls,

or calculate paths outlined by fortune.

your anything but easy-going gaze 

penetrates my spine 

as apprehensive glances gambol

amongst the star-struck night.

you commend well thought-out silence 

and talk of bicycles and boats,

your hands are buried in the mud,

meticulously constructing moats bound to castles,

you dig endlessly for fear and fight.

stand against the could-bes, need-bes, might.

an absence of light never caused a pause in action, 

never filled the nervous night with parasitic vengeance,

merely an avenue paved with lust,

a curiosity so deep it lies in trenches. 

each night when your syllables lessen

do the dreams return.

sitting at the foot of your bed, 

I bear the brunt of that dreary night-time whisper:

neglect, demise, pity, harm, and unsung wishes,

all of which you'd never show, but say quite well. 

imagination conquers,

and I shed torn walls

wash away mirrors

and paint the room in my honesty. 

brutally pulverize each ounce of hubris 

belonging to your brow,

only to break moats,

make them crumble from drought,

and terrorize the castle walls

with words, wands, and bows,

to set free the lively man I see. 

well, with the air-borne illness of apathy 

I rest my suitcase at your bare feet.

the road filled with stoned paths,

and bushes thick with thorns.

a tattered, mind-made, hand-made city 

illuminates the night behind you,

making me blind to stars, 

to any atmosphere at all

except the full almond eyes that lie on display

laden in enigmatic memory,

before me, they glance at the suitcase 

and only walk away. 

etcetcetc