Eccedentesiast

My throat shuts and my hands tremble at the thought knowing that deep inside of me, there is still the most prominent part of you. The remnants of my heart will never seem to stitch through if I just can't get this right. All I see around me are the shadows tip-toeing through my mind, echoing the words that never came out - and never will. It's a strict diet of words, where only a selected few will seem apt. I never wanted to fall apart as I do now that my heavy heart is weighing me down. I'm stuck on a word that will graffiti my mind like the neighborhood's haunted house. I don't want your look to split my heart's cells into a million fireflies on a flurry. What's to be of my heart that is haunted by the feelings you caused, even when I can still picture you running down the hall into his arms? A million staircases away from me, it seems. I should know better than to put my heart on a line that will turn out to be a train track. Is it possible to kick start my heart back to normal knowing that the engine has run off?

I can't stand faking my walk down the hall, a ghost in your eyes. I slowly drown out into these words I wrote on a note that will sink into me like the kisses you laid on my cheek. I fake every move to avoid the affairs concerning you and your glistening eyes. I don't think anyone looked as beautiful as you do when you're moving past the line. I'll fake these emotions so you'll never find out what I'm hiding inside of myself. My heart is only calling because of the memories in my head. Maybe some day I'll figure my thoughts out, but I probably never will

Amen.

The Runway Of Life

It’s a shame that the world works in a fashion where one can give their all to someone else, and just be the best person you can be only to make something work. It’s wrong, and it falls on those who give in too much. I hate this feeling - when it all smells like winter. The smell of the wet plants on the morning after a heavy rain. I love the smell of it, but I hate the feeling that comes along with it; It’s the same smell as tears. It’s just all an unmitigated disaster. A salty lake on the bottom of your chin, waiting for the final jump into an abyss of loneliness, it’s like an organ of blues music, simultaneously maintaining a level of originality when its original use was for funerals. We’re all just the black keys of the piano. The minors. The faults, indeed, but when you feel like it’s all coming down, the rain reminds you of yourself inside. Coming out, like a rapid fire transit train on a midnight shift. Lonely, quick, and almost senseless. When it rains, it’s the coming clean of generations, but the final reminder of an ending pain. The final sting. The pain is as subtle as a hurricane. Tears you apart and lets you down. Everything seems to crawl and fall apart, if anything moved at all. Loneliness affects those empty in the heart, sooner or later. Maybe romance is dead. Maybe it’s gone and left us all with an illusion of what is presented in the media. This world is not meant for the people like me - those that carry their heart on their sleeve. It’s for those that live, love, and carry on.

So, wear your best black dress and hit the runway; maybe you'll dazzle the surrounding lives caught in the mainframe of love and deception. I give in too easily, and become too much. Maybe some day I'll get it right, but for now, love is a lonely little word that I just think about too much.

Dream Big, Angel

I'm not sure I can follow through with whatever my heart dictates. I feel like I'm a spilt neon light in the back alley of the pub, a symbol of the refraction of your love after the course of our relationship. I'm just the stepping stone of your life; I knew I would never remain as a constant.

I guess that if love is never going to last forever, then it's just a waste of time and hearts. I don't want to reboot any moment that I feel like I'm getting torn apart. Why is it that I die for you, while you die in another's arms? You're dragging the short leg of the corpse of our relationship on the palms of the hands you share with others. I don't know what my goal is, I just know that without you, the days fall into a deeper and darker gray than usual.

Sometimes I wonder what crosses your head. If, at any given moment, you spend a single moment thinking of me - a fraction of the life time I've spent writing about you. I hope you know that you were all that was left for me in this deadbeat town. The streetlights don't sing to me like they used to, and the tender smell of rain is just reminiscent of our parting. I don't want to remember the words you said, but they cross my head like a million fireflies running to the light.

I read your letter, the one you left me asking me to never let you go. I'm sure you never meant that love could stop like a burnt out cigarette. We're at the center of the hurricane, crossing over through the waves of a spinning disaster that will tear my heart apart and spread it to the world. I'm worn out and broken apart, and your lips stutter as you pretend that we're OK. I don't want to be the only one lying when I say that things were better off two months ago, when our fingers intertwined on the broad sight of day.

As I write this, I'm left wondering what is left for me to be; maybe I'll just be the washed up return of the former love, the ashes of a flame once so tall that left the roof of your brain on fire. They say that when your heart's burning, the smoke gets in your eyes, and it's finally clear to me that I am diseased. This love you triggered is a curse.

I have parataxic distortions that will lead me through the mediocre thought that you deserve better, even when your makeup runs on another cheek. It's a tragedy you live for the comedy of life. When you said the time was wrong, I don't think you realized that once let go, the wind you catch will never be the same. You threw caution to the wind with your shaky arm along with your head. Rolling in the deep, I'm just a worn out pavement, the only thing that tenderly strokes my lips when I hit the ground.

I'm not sure I want to get up - I rather avoid the opportunity to fall for you altogether. I'll drag my body for the remaining three months on the down-low, never alone but never without heart. I sing for the stars - but that's a story for another time.

You keep me hopeless and tied to a life that felt like a roman candle to my heart. Set off the images of the words that run off the PA system on the walls, claiming to fix the broken tragedy that struck this life. Burn up the solar system in your eyes, glistening stars on the universe of your retina. Stare straight up at me and beg for a kiss, I just don't want your lips to forget the ones that gave them the most love they will ever feel. Give me the look of love - connect your jeweled eyes with mine. Sometimes I love you the most when you light up your eyes.

Thirteen Minutes to Midnight

When we spread our words to each other last night, I'm not quite sure you have may have felt the spark I have. A forbidden love, made almost out of a movie scene, played out in front of us like dancing fireflies, eloquent, but too shy to speak the seriousness of the subject. Acted lovers on a valentine's fever, too charming and childish to face the truth, but too serious to use any other words.

Maybe the pieces fall into place, and the acknowledgement of this young, impossible love will be revealed. Until then, we'll repose and hide away with these pieces of words in our souls, forevermore laying like the patch of grass being stroked by the wind. Carefully caressing the the nature outside, my desire raged on for an opportunity with you like that. I'm not one to move ahead, for I am too much of a clichéd, self-conscious type of lover, but I know that my way with words will smitten you eventually.

Maybe this is just the thrill of the chase, but the moment you'll have me in your hands, I'll form a piece of your regular schedule, and just how I came in; recklessly, unexpectedly, and rapidly; I will be gone. You may miss me then, and our hearts may realize that these games we're playing are more than a facade with the simple callings of "darling" and "love"

I always go to bed feeling like a poet, but could it be that perhaps last night I may have seen the sight of a poet with a matching, hidden angst, and a desire to spread love despite the tremendous scars that decorate it?

Dear you, I may start my engine, my broken heart, just to give it a chance again.