Maybe you could be the one,
to reignite the fire in my veins,
and turn my life into something extraordinary.

To make every morning bright,
and every thought filled with love,
that beats it’s chest with pride and caring.

Or maybe you could be the one,
to destroy my life and dreams,
and turn my ambitions into foggy memories.

You might take the complete me,
and hollow it out into a ghost man,
where hope pours into a drain of apathy.

Maybe you could be the one,
I love for the rest of my life,
and touch how only lovers can;
or that I leave in a few months,
in a furious exchange of curses.

Who knows?

The fire on my wings rips and spits,
through the sparse high-atmosphere air,
and volcanoes erupt off my fiery body,
in a terrifying, and furious fashion.

Passion travels like lava,
through chasms of molten veins,
emotion pumps to the surface of my skin,
fueling the purifying flames of my inferno.

Whose are the eyes that I will burn out,
and whose are the eyes I will bless with beauty?

And if another comes along,
to extinguish my loud flames,
and put out my burning feathers,
who will be the one to reignite my soul?

Life is just happening to me;
I’ve lost the forward momentum,
and found myself unable to catch it.

I don’t know where I’ve been,
or who I’ve been there with.

Unsympathetic hands blend in,
with those of sympathy,
and the world is a wall,
of gray, blurry hands;
both accepting,
and refusing me.

I stare out beyond my borders,
and see the distress,
and and the excitement,
of every opportunity;
yet find myself unable to act,
incapable of moving forward.

I am reminded that,
“Anything but forward is a waste of time,”
but how do I stop wasting time?

The clock ticks,
and tocks,
without solutions.

March 5, 2010

A flurry of options culminate in,
a spectacular moment of indecision,
completely freezing my mind and willpower,
as icicles hang from a once passionate heart.

I try to climb the hill I was king off,
and I just can’t seem to find my footing,
the mud slides out from under my feet each step,
under the weight of my every mistake and heavy heart.

Even my dreams have begun their attack;
where I once found solace, peace, and understanding,
I know find demons, shadows, and the sting of my guilt.

For what, for whom, and why,
does this attack occur,
and manage to break me down,
when everything was rolling,
such a short while ago?

Am I too scared to look,
into the eye of the storm?

Have I let go for too long,
and lost touch of my reality?

Have I let my anchors become cut,
and drifted into this indifference,
from my safely secured, familiar life?

This was will be lost for insanity,
or maybe it becomes the victor,
of a vacant mind, a shell of what was,
and may neve be again.

and the old lyrics echo in my head;
“I know the piece fit,
because I watched them fall away;”
but what great architect,
can put this mess back together?

Only me.

Passion seemed to die,
in the corridors of broken dreams,
that once shone with the power of a thousand suns,
and now sit, burnt-out, smoldering.

That’s the way life is,
for some people, who have trouble getting out of bed,
because there life has fallen apart at the seams,
and help is an echoing voice in the distance,
down one out of a series of darkened, degraded hallways.

A phantom hope wanders aimlessly,
on your better days you can almost feel it,
and on your worst it’s a shameful reminder of your potential,
imagine what you could have been,
if you only tried.

Imagine all of the burnt-out people,
who had ambition, and hope deep inside of their hearts,
but ran face-first into a cold wall of despair named reality,
where motivation is a one-man band playing on your own street corner,
collecting the right amount of change to eat sometimes,
but never enough to keep on living.

That’s when potential died,
in the gutters with change,
where reality swallowed it whole,
and motivation became a foreign dream.

Your empty shell greets me,
with a mirrored, sad smile,
and we know what we’ve done,
and what we’ve been through.

It hasn’t gotten easier,
and the rain won’t wash away,
all the rough moments,
and killer mistakes.

The past is too strong,
for you, me, and us especially,
we can never forget it,
not now, not ever.

What did you mean to me?
Well, what does it matter?
It ended for me then,
despite the shadows.

They play on the wall,
in my weaker moments,
and I watch them dance,
and laugh,
go unnoticed,
and cry.

Your shadows have become you,
in the purest form they could;
raw emotions and infancy,
no more rational filter.

Is it your rain dance,
or will it bring the sun?

Well, which would you prefer?

You savage, savage ghosts;
the way your tears join the rain,
and the way you dance in the sun,
confuses my dreams, memories,
and the memories of my dreams.

I float on an island,
a flying object approaches;
a bird, an angel, or death?
A mirage for the insane?

White walls rise,
the phantoms wail,
and life continues,
so very peacefully.

And you return every time,
to bring your malice and love,
even when it’s not welcome any longer.

Why can’t you feel the rust,
that grows on the outside of my heart,
from all of your unnecessary tears and the rain;
you tried to drown me in the flood,
now I can swim in the hurricane.

You were never enough,
when we were together,
with your love or hate;
you’re no stronger now.

My soul was always like Greek Fire;
too complex for you to understand,
too strong for your flames of hatred,
and a secret lost to you forever.

My flames never die when I stoke them,
the embers from ours died too long ago.

Why do we all drift away,
from everyone except now-friend;
old friends fading out,
like a train into a tunnel,
never to be thought of again.

Time passes in this way,
for better or worse,
and friendships pass away.

Are we akin to goldfish,
with our flawed memories,
destined to always discover,
a new castle in our fish bowl,
that was there the entire time.

Maybe the thrill of something new,
that feeling of novelty,
whether it be in friends or lovers,
is something we cherish,
in a self-destructive, and broken way.

Maybe it accounts for our failures,
in communication,
in friendship,
and in love.

Maybe fear,
and doubt,
have nothing to do with it.

well, maybe.

I could write thousands of poems,
and never pin that down,
even though it never moves or changes.

Every poem I try,
is so close,
but maybe not as close,
as the one before,
but who ever knows.

Abstracts;
always fluid,
never solid.

It escapes the pen,
but not the imagination,
whether it’s success,
love,
happiness,
hatred,
victory,
or defeat.

It is always on the tip of the mind,
and yet, never on the tip of one’s pen.

It isn’t enough to make the reader feel it,
it must jump from the pages,
and claw away your throat,
or I have failed you.

Failure is the feeling one achieves,
when they feel they’ve finally captured,
something worth yelling from the mountains,
only to realize it isn’t quite there at all.

The cycle continues,
poem by poem,
song by song,
and life by life.

tonight is one of those nights,
isn’t it?

there’s some deadly feeling of boredom,
hanging around my neck, choking me.

It’s not in what you’ve said,
who you’ve become,
or what you’ve done,
it’s something more.

It’s a feeling that became,
a hurricane of emotions,
never letting up,
with nowhere to take refuge.

I write poems that act as walls,
to protect me from the storm,
but they always fail me,
just as my poems fail you.

You search for something more,
some flame to light your way,
through your darkest moments,
but the light never comes,
and all you see are words,
on a computer screen,
or piece of paper.

Life is lived alone,
despite our best protests.