My heart is a cemetery; Stones of memories. Windy laughter; Weeping willows of comfort.
Circles of unknown faith; Clutching dirty soles. Forgotten ones; a lonely garden.

It used to be home, but it hurts like Hell.

Writing isn't meant for the optimistic

Here I am, same shitty band. I understand that was a fragment, but I can open this narrative any way I wish and end it with no real resolution. Not every poet is sung. These sentences are structured around the way my life is constructed. Am I yet completely whole? In some senses, while the others are lacking in perfection.

Am I scared? Perhaps. I only can go out with as much as I took in.

Flaws. The cracks and red spots on my skin. The lack of faith, of real motivation. Giving up is a piece of cake and maybe I'm willing to eat it. Fill me up and make me regurgitate regret. Show me all the I-could've-hads.

Money holds you back, but the heart buries you under. I grew up with no real desire--just creativity. Expression, dramatization...

Where does this lead me?

A blank page and a night of what-ifs.

If you can't tune your own bass, and I don't need to play my own guitar. We're characters in a song, except we're actually real.

Puppets on strings, cut off and left to make asses of ourselves.

At least you've accepted it. I'm still trying to get off this damn island.

"I miss you. Hope to see you soon."

There aren't words for me to come to terms.
Put the tape in rewind. I'm not ready to play.

Maidez, Maidez!

Stomach cramps, but I refuse to regurgitate words.
I'm not saying much more beyond: "I'm sad."
Life is a bitch that doesn't care who gets slapped

Talked to the grave
Nothing spoke back.

Hope? In the words of one man
But in the hearts of a whole [nation]

Things should be morphing
But I rather be a chameleon--don't see me.
Don't find me.
Pretty, pretty please?

The keys are in the garage
Played frequently and hammered gently.
It was love at first note --another reason why dreams shouldn't be deferred...

Life is more than a FAD

Forever unmoved, but easily resolved.

Spinning in circles because I'm not ready to sail, yet.
There's a change in the wind;the paper is perfectly blank again...

Fixated on dreaming realities and becoming a possibility.

Life's a revolving door in rainy Missouri
But she still dances, even when the wheel jams.

Death was a scapegoat, a phobia--now it's just a fact

I'm sinking with the improbability that I'll marry you
Knowing that I don't know how to drown.