House of Cork

I used to waste my time
dreaming of being alive
Now I only waste it dreaming of you
Isn't it messed up
how I'm just dying to be him?
Sometimes I just want to
know what it's like to be you.
Poets are just kids that didn't make it
and never had it at all,
when it's all said and done
they're all scrambling.
You're the only place that feels like home,
some secrets were meant to be told
when the world is crashing down.
Trying to forget everything
that isn't you,
I don't want to forget how your voice sounds.
We've never seemed so far.
I'm hopelessly hopeful,
you're just hopeless enough
but never both.
Too overdramatic,
this has been said so many times
That I'm not sure if it matters:
To the love, I swear, I say
these words are all I have
so I'll write them.

Two

Under the chin,
squeeze the trigger,
but I can't see where
your hand starts,
mine ends.
Perhaps they are one,
and we are more than just
two
a greater whole
tearing down its own base
to watch itself burn.

A poem in reverse.

Purple prose, flowered language
intricate allusions to bittersweet tings
remind me of hidden truths.
Intuition guides me beyond,
into the realm of your dream.
You cringe, twist away,
afraid to reveal truths unspoken,
but I view them anyway
and return hard truth in turn.
Beauty left implied
in simple words
seem to reach you.
Or perhaps they fall,
lame,
before deaf ears,
refusing to hear
a poem in reverse.

Part 3

What do you want from me?
You draw me in,
held tight,
and whisper in my ear
sweet nothings,
"Leave."
I have no course,
no bearing,
and you leave me lost.
What is my path?
How do I move beyond
when all paths lead back
to you.
So instead I charge
forward
into your arms
and embrace
fate.

Iscariot

What goes around
comes around,
but only in hand grenades
and harm.
It doesn't matter
what you give,
only that you pay
for what you've done
tenfold.
The good earn their reward:
a rotten tree
and a hemp rope,
and we wonder
why they hang
or spin
and try to get their
thirty silver coins.

Advice

If I had to give you advice,
become accustomed to breaking.
Leap from great heights
and play with fires better left untouched.
Break yourself,
so that when you meet
another
you will never become more broken
than you are.

Emerald Eyes.

We meet again
and again.
You call me old friend.
You ask how I've been
but you know full well.
And I know you've been watching.
Never far behind,
even when hidden,
watching through emerald eyes.
Why don't you stay,
and I'll leave
I will go so far
for so long.
But no matter.
You always follow.
My closest companion.
Most hated foe.

Fairytale Fools

The passion is dead,
the fire burnt out
but don't you know?
We cook over the coals.
Hearts which once raced
a high-octane affair
have given out.
One day
you will see
That fairytales are just
dreams that don't last,
that song and story
are the hopes of fools
wishing to delay
the inevitable,
and
that I am one such fool.

Dreamers.

Do you not see
that life is but a dream?
A series of far-flung hopes
compounded on
those moments
where we get
not what we wish for,
but what we are given.
It is a dream,
or perhaps nightmare,
and to wake
is the uncertainty of if the waking world
is the better.

Dances

Accusations are thrown.
An old dance, well rehearsed,
we know where the other will step
and guide each other.
The rise, the fall,
we know how it ends.
Nothing changed.
But now, a twist.
Grace of the past turns,
and a new rage burns.
And now, lost, we flounder.
Searching for answers
when we barely know the questions.
and then it comes again,
that familiar click,
and everything falls into place.
The veil lifted, however,
and we see a frightening truth,
the twisting dance that binds us.

Patchwork

Where is the line
between repair and replace?
Replace the working parts,
you get a different machine,
But is it still yours?
When everything that was is gone,
where can we draw lines back to?
Patchwork histories
and replacement dreams.

Falling down.

How many times to we have to fall
before we stop standing up?
The stubborn will
moves on, gives up.
Or does it remain here
making us continue to fight
a battle we cannot win,
a fight already lost.
Or is our view reversed,
and we're only standing
when our face is in the dirt?

On winds unerring

Uncaring,
he moves forward
like a leaf,
blown by an unerring wind.
Listless, it swoops 'round
carried past anything
that might stop its journey;
carrying on into
eternity.

Ghosts.reprise

The ghosts of the past were
my friends.
They comforted
protected
explained the world.
But now, they are gone.
Their presence missed,
as dying spirits
leave no ghost.

Parades

Parades of images
A mockery of memories
long past
passing through my mind.
Dull senses
of what was
once to come
Now return to mind
ghosts of the unborn.

Wildfires

A hole in my chest where
once passion burned.
I seek to stoke the embers,
yet restrain myself.
Dried leaves drift on the wind,
a wildfire threatens to burst out
Uncontrolled
burning
Consuming the hearth
it was to warm.

Mindless

Falling backwards,
regression in time.
failing attempts at thought
prove insubstantial.
As my mind slips from me
a nightmare unfolding.
I must continue
trying to remember
without a mind,
that fear only prolongs
suffering.