bored

Oh, so, what's wrong young man?
Oh, you look so down,
what are you so glum for?
Oh, I guess you're
just bored

You need to get out
have fun
get out
and stop being so
bored

And oh, if you would fill up your days
with meaningless activities
you would find
you're not so
bored

Just stop being
so bored and boring
we're all so tired
of your constant whining
Everyone agrees
just go ahead and ask me
the only cure
is to stop being so
bored

i don't know....

The darkness of the room enveloped him, wrapped him in its cold embrace, suffocating anything pure that may have been left.

Connor let out one choked tear, relishing the warmth as it blazed a trail down his weathered cheek. The moonlight broke through the canopy of clouds, shining one brilliant blue beam of light onto Connor’s face, turning his tear into a drop of ice, streaming down his face.

Quickly and quietly, without even knowing he was doing it, Connor closed his brilliant blue eyes, and fell to his knees beside his ancient bed, relishing the pain as he came in contact with the hard concrete floor.

Bathed in the night’s only light, Connor knelt beside his bed, and quietly spoke, in a voice only the dead could hear.

“If you’re there… if you still care, I need you now. I need to know… I need some sort of sign. Please…,” Connor’s words choked into a horrible sob, ending his ability to speak, if only momentarily.

“I… am so lost. If you’re still there, if you still care, I have to know… Is there any hope? For forgiveness? Are you still watching over us? Over me?...

“Am I still of your family?”

Connor could say no more – his voice, already hoarse from the events of the last few days, had burned away to a sandpapery nothing.

Hanging his head in a mixture of exhaustion and shame, Connor Ryan, opened his eyes, stared into the cracked cement floor, and whispered, “I’m sorry….”

Lack of Iron and/or Sleeping

What does it mean, what does it mean, what does it mean?
Everything is hidden. I won't say the words - but oh, how I have wanted to.
It wouldn't matter. No, it wouldn't matter. Would it matter?
Even if I were to shout them out there, and by some divine miracle, some impossible chance, they were to be returned - what would it mean?
What of the other thing - the secret that I know, that no one knows that I know?
So many reasons and regrets, so many reasons to disappear.

Maybe it is just... well, what the title says.

Even if I had what I wanted in my hands right now, even if my dreams could come true - what would it mean? What does it mean, that I have to wonder that?
Would I trust it to be truth? Or would I doubt, as I have always?
Oh, pity pity pity
Don't pity me
Would - well, I can't say, in such a public place.
But still more doubts, still more doubts, ever more doubts.
It doesn't much matter, I tell myself - what use is wondering of a future, when so uncertain of the present?
but what if what if what if
Should I?
Oh doubt, you cowardly foe, you have beaten me yet again.
If I said it, what would the consequences be? If I don't?

So many paths, forever unknown, what lies down the one not taken.
But what if, what if, what if?


I am the vagabond, living in the wind, the cold night's breeze is my blanket,
the lonesome sound of nothing
is my only friend now.
And this brings peace.

I see beauty where you see tragedy - who is right?

To die a beautiful death is to have lived a blessed life.

Laments to the Night Sky

I have been contemplative of late - much more so than would be deemed healthy, I sadly note.

In my thoughts has been those I've loved in my lifetime - I will name no names, for that is not my place to do so. Some have known that I loved them, for I spoke the words plainly - others may not ever know, and that is just as well, I suppose.

Three that knew, though, held such differing opinions of me that I couldn't help but wonder - which was the real me they saw?

One, the earliest, viewed me as no one in particular - a random individual with no real characteristics that, somehow, she grew to love for a short time, before finding a better specimen.

The latest - the latest that I have spoken those dreaded words to, who, sadly, never returned the emotions, told me I was a romantic. She said I was one of the most romantic people she had ever met, and under different circumstances she could have loved me.

Another, just before her, thought of me as a broken, immature fool - who she loved, for a short time, nonetheless. She felt - and told me so, quite plainly - that I was not nearly romantic enough.

So, it begs the question - who am I? The romantic, the fool, or no one?

I suppose, in the end, I am all and none.

I love far too deeply, far too often, and see the magic in places where no one else does - this is the romantic in me.

I attempt to hide that part of myself away, replacing it with a silly act, or jokes at my own expense - always at my own expense. This the immature me.

I try to put these two together, to make the parts whole, to be both simultaneously - this is the random me.

So, who am I? I am no one, and I am everyone - I am myself.

I love far too much - thou, I suspect, I will never say those words again. No, it will but be whispers in the night, to the darkness as it overtakes me.

In my end, I fear, I will be none of the things I once was - the romance and beauty is gone, replaced with longing and doubt.

I guess it can be said _that_ is who I am.

I am the boy who could never have enough - and in the end, had had too much.

I wish I was somewhere else

and I wish it was warmer.

the tree

I took a walk into the woods
to get away from all of you
Sat underneath an ancient tree
as the sap dripped down my back
I thought of all the people I'd left behind

And as I gazed into that ancient tree
I saw a carving
they were initials, in a heart
the letters faded with age
I could almost imagine the one who carved them
sitting under that ancient tree

Maybe he came here one night
desperation on his breath
with a knife in his hand
he pledged his love
and maybe
they
lived happily
ever after



But I doubt it.

Maybe she
broke his heart
and he died that night
with a knife in hand
sitting under this ancient tree.

keep turning the page....

I stayed up all night, and watched the sun rise.
And I wept with the clarity, the beauty.
Suddenly everything made sense, and I could accept everything
and take my own advice.
and saw the beauty in everything
and the tears were of joy and relief.

I stared at the pictures in my hand, protected in plastic, so fragile.
Memories, a name I don't speak to many people.
and my heart swelled with love and longing,
and it was right.
It was all right.

I put the pictures away, put myself to bed, and whispered the words that had been circling my head.

This is bliss. This is bliss.

take the wasp alive

dreamdreamdreamdreamdreamdreamdream

of escape

a tiny pill, a smiling face, a kind word,
a lie told sweetly
a song that speaks to your soul
something to look forward to
a tomorrow a tomorrow a tomorrow a tomorrow
the rush of not knowing
the warmth of knowing
the emptiness of in-between
everything is in-between
a glass full of happiness
a handful of release
a soft touch
a hand, a look
and regretregretregret

meta

He was a poet once.

They said that a lot -

He was a poet once.

The truth is, he never really considered himself a poet at all. He saw the world, filled with beauty and hate and sadness and love, and it was poetry. He just did his best to put it on the page. He shared with the world his view of it, along with his deepest loves and greatest longings. He was a romantic, you see, and each poem he wrote was a love letter to the world.

He used to be a poet, in their eyes.

Suddenly, though, with no explanation, he just... stopped. No one could understand why this would happen - and he offered only one answer, which did little to stop the speculation.

He closed the door, he said.

And now, they say he was a poet once.

an open invitation

The beauty of the new-born day was overpowering. Almost.
The empty, burning feeling in the pit of his stomach could not be swayed or dissuaded, it was immovable, and driving him forward.
He watched the cracks in the sidewalk disappear beneath his feet, the cold satisfaction of motion. Horns honked in the street as he crossed, paying no attention to traffic, not even hearing the angry shouts.

She wore green.

The building loomed ahead of him, a monolisk, walls of reflective glass, towering over the city. He paused, just for a moment, to take it in.

She wore green, the color of life, of rebirth.

It pierced the blue sky, a towering black knife. They even designed it with what, from the ground, looked like a razor sharp point at the top. A foreboding presence, in the middle of the bustling serenity of the waking city.

She smiled at him, from across the room, the skyline, the entire world, just her backdrop. She wore a green dress, while everyone else was in black. She would have stood out no matter what she wore.

He could feel the chill, as he stepped into the building's shadow. There was a statue, standing in front of the tower, beckoning him forward. The pavement, sparkling, cold, and dark, had red in it. He stood, next to the statue, staring at the ground. Men and women in suits, on their way from one unhappiness to another, passed him by with unseeing eyes. He stood in the shadow of the giant, staring at the red in the concrete.

She smelled of flowers and purity and beauty. She smiled at him, from across the room, and he could not help but smile back. Someone had opened the window behind her, and the cold night air caught her hair, swirling it around her face. A strand stuck to her lips, and he wanted nothing more than to softly brush it aside.

He walked toward the door, still staring at the red in the ground.

He walked toward her, the drink

The door was cold in his hand, as he pulled it open

The drink was cold in his hand, the ice chiming as they collided with glass, the music of his movement, toward her

He walked directly to the elevator, towards its gaping mouth, and pushed the button, the 34th floor.

The windows behind her gave a view of the entire city - but his eyes could not be pried from her. He walked toward her, slowly, putting his drink down on the nearest table.
The smile vanished from her face, almost as if it had never been. Their eyes stayed locked, hers suddenly filled with a hopeless longing and a cruel understanding of the unhappiness of destiny. The sorrowful wind grabbed at her dress, as she slowly took a step backwards, towards the fantasy of night. Someone had opened the window earlier, it was a hot night. Even up here, high above the world, they could not escape.
She took another step back. He stopped his motion, watching, helpless. The burning in his core, the emptiness of longing and understanding filling him. Their eyes, both filled with tears, their mouths devoid of words. Words could do no good here, anyway.
Someone turned up the music. They didn't hear it. No one else in the room noticed the two, staring at each other from across the room.
She was wearing green.
The color of life.

The elevator rumbled to life, slowly ascending the mountain

She took another step backwards. She was on the balcony now

He closed his eyes, seeing the red on the pavement

She smiled, weakly, breaking his heart in a way no words could ever describe. Words could do no good here.

He smiled, as a tear ran down the length of his face, falling, falling, falling

The elevator rumbled ever upward, every passing second bringing him closer to the closure his heart was seeking.

I'm only doing this to save my soul.

Just so you know.


I was searching for happiness - and, thanks to those fucking google kids, I found it. In that picture. That'n.

So, there is your e-happiness.

Now, in my search for the same thing in my daily life, well... results are much more difficult to come by.

There are a few things that bring solace in the empty afternoons. A great book (when I even think about the second chapter of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, I tear up a little) is a good way, if you're not so downtrodden that you have trouble focusing.
Or, there's always a bottle of liqour - what's the line? the medication may kill us, but it sure killed all the pain. Or something like that. Look it up later.

Lately, I've begun writing again. I used to, in my troubled youth, write daily. Hourly. I had notebooks stacked around my room, each at least half-filled with stories no one but I would ever know. I captured my demons, my dreams, myself, and locked them all away on those lined pages. Over time, the pages yellowed, the bindings gave way, and the world became my story. Every fear, every heartbreak was acted out again, in startling clarity.

So, now I write again, trying, well, not to find happiness, exactly, but to push away the darkest thoughts, for as long as I can hold on.
One day, though, the pages just won't be strong enough, and the ink will bleed through, dark and cold as blood, and escape will no longer be possible.

Until then, though, I'm... well, I'm only doing this to save my soul.