Window

Don't be mistaken
when the painted glass shatters away,
and rose scented memories fill the room.
We've been colored lights
dancing until dawn
in deep chuckling breaths.
A shadow came along.
I failed to believe it.

The light hues,
and stained panes
have been adequate to see through.
Soldered.
Fixed in freeze frames.
Reveling a pleasant time.
My misery evolves.
Certain colors tamper with trust.
I should paint over this glass.
The fine lines of concern
settle in the cracks.
We are beautiful.

Chips settle slowly in the light.
Mosaic-ed in shades
that stop some in their tracks.
Water color traces the mirrored profile.
Severed in short
sharp edges.
The surface had our appearances
smoothed over carefully.
Conference agreed.
This is worth saving.
Clean, transparent views
started after I took a hammer to the wall.
Now a couple can be caught
looking longingly out the window.

Brutal

Struggling is a heart song
I brutally dance to.
Play a different melody please.
I need to forget how difficult things have been.
Let my chest vibrate at the noise of you.

A jukebox with limbs and personality
will accept silence as a payment.
I guess I didn't hear anything at all.

Back to my own anthem.
If you hear me humming
it's because I didn't divulge any
lyrical conviction.
I sing everything that I remember about us to myself.
Brutal aberration to interrupt a mutilated distraction.
I do this through poetry....
you can add the music.
I manage to dance through refinement.
Through the distrust.
In hysterical confusion,
and permeating lust.
All of the mutiny hardships can offer.
I don't merely manage to stand....
move my feet.
I celebrate them through ballroom waltzes.
You already warned that you can't dance.

Brutally fallen on the cusp of moonlight.
The sun was torn from the sky.
Let me hear what bellows in the tragedy.
To become this whisper
I had to be brutal.

The same voice that laughs at the wind,
and has seen starlight and vengeance simultaneously in shades of purple.
Goodnight to the loose stitching.
All are undone.
So long to the waves at the river.
It was brutal to keep my head above water.
When you intentionally envy all who bare to run away,
and I chanced to circumstance all that brutally remain.
Thrust on.
Vicious is love and terrible time is only forgivable if I savagely burn away.
They all dump buckets on my head.....
Hearts that haven't any pity.
Brutal compliance,
we both know my soul ferociously awaits.

Work of Art

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
So are we.

Shutters get nailed shut.
I see you tap the nails into the walls.
We can display
what has taken hours on end.
Hang it up.
Let's say that we are proud
although something is missing.

The years will go by
and I alienate
the glow in this room.
I couldn't stand
to see my memories on the wall.
Will you remember
when I slowly painted on my face?
I felt so uninspired.
Struggling to pose....
trying to create a structural presence.

After years of being left alone
bricks will crumble
and all of the paintings peel.
Remember when you had a smile before  it was done.
Hello hope.
Art is a work of life.
Some of it is spilled and smeared.
We had creative ideas of rare informality.
Study or sing:
I'll remember this without blatant disregard any day.
I only hold value when I am gone.

I will find this
in a cardboard box
down in the basement.

Art is never finished.
Only abandoned.
We walked away
when we saw it was too difficult
to love something imperfect to ourselves.
Bring out a fresh canvas.
Let me draw you
a loving, obeying
picture so I know you look at
my faith hanging
from time to time.
Won't you love what I've done?

Number Sentence

If number were letters,
and I added them up to an equation
that sums up my past and your's equally:
Shall I see a value
in a vagrant richness
that's expensive,
and worth everything I've ever had.
100% heartache
with zero down payment.
Maybe you use cheap words.

I'll reach deep into my pockets
for change to count this out.
You jingle when you walk,
and I can't wait to hear the sound.
Like wind chimes in an Autumn wind.
I barely two cents
to rub together
like lips and a face that had 5 o'clock shadow.
There and gone.
Continuing to be a bit worthless.

I calculate these words.
What's left should be an account
of a broke heart.
A definition of sacred titled texts
and people you call upon late at night.
Zero is a number
celebrants waiver
in my empty wallet of mind.
One is in a heart
without any want
or need
of monetary value
for the other.
I never keep spare,
loose change in my mind.

I hold my coin purse;
a thesaurus,
as he knows this will cost me.
We wait in the sallow cold.
I counted the smiling wrinkles
next to his eye
belonging to a wondering
banker who empties
satirical thought.
I must cost a pretty penny.
May I have a rate again
in a town full of trash and stupidity.
These affections are costing a fortune
not in dollar bills,
but in hands and feet.
I will ask of nothing,
but still look at the value
of the hours I stay awake.
The numbers on the clock.
My thoughts on who has worth.
This sums up a word problem.
You can say "I love you" but what's the percentage interest these days?
I am your figure
paid in paragraphs
in contiguous claim.
One of these days
the mean will be nothing at all.
I hope you think about savings.
It's all but a description
of who's always in your mind.

Legacy Matches and Wasted Time

As I explained all questions
we headed for the basement;
a place of dust and rust
excusable for dirty habits.

Brought out matches
saved from a missed Mother.
He said, "Darling, do you know why we smoke so much?"
We have processed a thought
dragging us down...
tethering my careful woe.
He took out a match.
We inhale a drawl.
The stupid stick unfocused all
heavy internal thought.
When I quake and roll..
stammer and pace...
there's a conscience effort
to turn off reflection.

We always burn with thoughts:
Memories of his Mother
throwing an ashtray,
and myself
wishing I had better news.

Smoke and a shoulder
as I kill myself slowly
with legacy matches and the stupid sticks.
We already have the cancer
of an intellectual mind that would rather
be barreling through our greater work.
These days come and go like the smoke
stinking up the truth.
I'm just procrastinating what needs to be dealt with.

Let this burn for a moment.
There's a certain peace found
in legacy matches and the stupid sticks
when we stop talking
and decide to enjoy each other's company instead.
Silence isn't a waste of time
but addictions to fragments of zen
take time off my life.

Second Best

I am only second best.
This is the firm handshake
only seen behind the back.
No one is proud enough to hold you perfectly,
and everywhere you look something is held above you.

We were only second best.
The silver under a tounge
who's owner flaunts gold.
It will begin to kill you inside
when knowing everyone you hold dear
only has seen you as an option.
Your sister, your mother, your ex lover
Your friends, your neighbors...
all talk of something far better
and we were misunderstood.

Nothing really compares to what true love can offer
but in visual comparison
we are too bold.
That silver shines too much light
so we tend to blind the hopeless
until they cannot see.

They all fumble
with squinting eyes
tailgating shadows
of golden ghost faced heirophants
whispering words to the masses
who tend to nod their heads
as if they never had any other choice.
But behind the drama,
and the curtains of solidarity
a time for the ones who have tried their best still remains.
Push us forward when you realize
all who have everything never appreciate
and those who work the hardest seem to always have nothing at all.

Throw out your golden crown.
The biggest prize is my beating chest
of muddled earth and unattractive truth.
Tarnished and forgotten about.
Spoken of
only to prove a time that I actually did exist.
It's not pretty.
Gold won't always shine either.

This is reality
and first prize is just a glamorous show to hide behind when you know something deep down.
After the picketed white fences and trophy wives.....
After the beauty of young faces wrinkle...
When no one shows up when you're dieing,
and all that's fantastic presently dulls to an indifferent cycle...
I am still a polished second place holding what you had never won.
You should be jealous.

Lynn

That woman embodied everything I wanted to be...

She had rings on her fingers
and bells on her toes.
A shoulder for when I had been thinking
while dancing in funky pantyhose.
When I saw she loved life
like so many true souls do
losses were forgotten
and I could never be blue.

We dance like interpreters
of courageous star light
when darkness exists
long after the night.
Blessed is dear Lynn
that keeps myself standing tall.
A friend forever
telling me to stand instead of fall.
Despite when I shouldn't be proud:
acting of nuisance and crying aloud.
That's the woman I wanted to be,
when these swollen eyes can barely see.
She's my best friend
always
when all nonsense is ever present there.
Thank my Celtic wisdom heir.
When mothers and sisters turned out to be none,
thank god for Lynn,
A love I finally won.