Liquid Romance

Liquid romance.

Fluid, in nature.

Deplorable, in hindsight.

How many times will I give way

To the relentless waves

Of these half empty oceans I dive into?

Head first.

I never even test the waters,

I just dive Right in,

And let the undertow take me.

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…From Here On Out 

originally a poem I wrote and turned into a song.  I wrote it after seeing the news about the last Vegas shooting.

Everything’s eventual,

it’s really quite a shame,

that what happens now,

from here on out,

it’ll always be the same.

And everything’s perpetual,

a never ending game.

Well, you chew it up,

And you spit it out,

it’ll always be the same


Tell me why?

Tell me why,

all the up-swings went under.

Tell me when?

Tell me when-

we got stuck on for better-

or for worse,

or for worse.

Tell me, I can’t remember

all the lasts,

and the firsts,

tell me when we came up.


Cause it’s all down hill from here on out.

Cause it’s all down hill forever now.

Yes it’s all down hill ’till we come around.

Yes it’s all down hill from here.


Everything is gradual,

like time is oh so slow.

Just shut your eyes,

and hang around,

you’ll be gone before you know.

And everything’s irrational,

like never seen before.

But we’ll never know,

So we’ll cast a stone-

there will always be a war.


Tell me why?

Tell me why-

are the walls getting thinner?

Tell me when?

Tell me when-

the world burned to a cinder.

Tell me now?

Tell me how?

The fire still lingers-

Over me, over you

But it’s all we know.


Cause it’s all down hill from here on out.

Cause it’s all down hill forever now.

Yes it’s all down hill ’till we come around.

Yes it’s all down hill from here.


Turning Over 

I’ve always let the light chase me,

And I’ve always let darkness take me,

Hoping that the light will soon catch up,

that I’ll stop and it’ll pass right through me,

to lead me through the dark of night.

It’s been so long since the light graced this black and white congregation.

A long while since it kissed the faces I’ve buried here.

But here I am.

A bone yard, a cemetery,

a ghost town.

An empty person, full of old bones.

Old skeletons.

Lifelessness besieges me.

Life, beseeches me.

It urges me,

To transcend this phobia, the darkness.

And let life light me like it once did.

There is nothing to fear.

I can’t keep living like yesterday was my last,

I’ll live like today is.

So I’ll bury this face,

In the boneyard

One last time,

and I’ll choose to live-

to follow the light all the way back.

I’ll transform this ghost town into a triumphant city,

And I’ll only come back here to visit memories.

The boneyard, that is.

31, October

31,october.

A day to celebrate those who already wear masks.

Although these faces speak more to themselves today,

than the smiles they depict

every other.

Today, they wear their monsters and demons on the outside,

on their sleeves.

Not a person within a character,

But a character within a person.

And why they chose such attire?

A choice that came from within-

To give the world what it wants,

or a symbol of what they favour.

On this day, the 31st of October,

they don’t have to be but a demon 

behind a fraudulent face.

Today, they can let it all hang out,

give the world what they want

And just smile, within. 

Whole Together

Pierce me again,

With those eyes like arrows.

I love the way they stab me,

straight through my heart,

just like the first time.

That very first time I was split in half.

The first time my life was someone else’s too.

And how I long for this look again.

How I yearn for the tension

that pulled us together.

Without it,

my life is my own.

And I am still whole.

I am still here-

Full,

but not complete.

Left with but a hole in my bleeding heart.

So it bleeds on,

a vacant room inside my soul.

And I have tried to fill it with another…

Another set of Bright eyes

to sink to blank stares.

Another youthful friendship

to age too quickly.

It would seem this room belongs to one,

and no other.

It would seem this heart still bleeds for old arrows,

these eyes long to be seen again,

This Room wants to be full again.

And it could be ours once more,

Full,

And complete.

So I can be half,

And we can be whole,

together.

Prolific Orchards 

Who are we to talk?

We are the fruits of a guilty conscience.

Well, the Apple doesn’t fall from the tree.

But not the tree, nor the apple are at fault.

It’s the man that planted them.

The man that nurtured these prolific orchards,

extending his reach through their fingers.

Dropping apple after apple,

leaving trails of fruit,

the common denominator isn’t hard to find.

You don’t even have to look.

Just follow along the path of bad seeds and you’ll find it.

A tree of his own, nursing the rest.

The rest of us.

And we’ll all fall.

We’ll be left at the foot of this tree,

hands too frail to pick us up.

Left to live and grow,

and drop apples of our own.

Ambiguous

So here I am again,

in the cross hairs of indecision.

To stay here would be my death,

to come back, my suicide.

I live and die there,

in my sleep.

And every day I resurrect myself,

A new man with the same dreams.

And you’re always in them.

A life and death of your own.

But you always stay, and I always come home.

That’s your home now.

And there you live,

a vague watercolor face in my sleep.

I can’t continue these cloudy inaugurations,

These lucid beginnings, Ambiguous endings.

We can’t keep meeting like this.

You aren’t welcome there anymore.

I’m sure I’ll see you again,

But for now,

I need to sleep on my own.

Creatures Of Habit

This rock.

This tiny blue marble floating in the darkness.

The birth, and resting place of vicious, simple creatures.

Creatures of habit. 

At the hands of these sentient machines, blue will fade to Black.

Autonomous little sheep, dance like marionettes dangling under the Shepard.

Powerful like God’s, they spit in the face of the darkness.

And just like a man that throws dust into the wind

No one will be blinded but themselves.

That’s okay.

It’s just one rock.

Just one tiny blue marble…

Partition 

Reality. That’s what  I can see.

And that’s all there is, here,

outside the lines of concrete, 

inside the partition.

The world turns so slowly 

when Clocks of sand don’t tick around me. 

This city of trees is crowded, 

but no one speaks.

Now, they will barely even breathe.

The autumn breeze kills, and caresses these brittle people.

Caring not, for minutes 

or the hands that carry them.

Time is already standing still.

Because Autumn is Summer’s punctuation. 

A period that separates life and death, hot and cold.

The last grain of sand before the hour glass turns

And when the snow falls, life will pause, like it too, needs to smell the roses.

A short while to reset the clock, and begin again.

One day soon, life will go on.