Sunday, February 21, 2010


You tie life's anchor to your leg
and and dive into the black.
Then you take it all in,
and let it all back out again.

you fall apart slowly
and you find it hard to sleep,
you stare at yourself and the secrets you keep.
You look past the mirror and the wall behind it,
Into the things that have nothing to think about.
Like talking shit about nothing in particular,
the way the weather is and the way the days are getting longer.
And nothing gets past the surface, and it stays in front of your eyes.
anything could pass in front of you, but your completely desensitized.
A new day has come, as maturity has grabbed you,
with its grey clammy hand to cushion the reality around you.

Thursday, February 4, 2010


Hands laced in blue to power passion,
to search a face or spit out poison.
Hands composed of papery leather,
as transience's are all completed and dignity faded.
Jealously pinching at the cheeks of the young,
the shimmering silk of a mortal frame.

Hands cupping water on a mountain ledge,
or the blood of a wound near life's end.
Hands like the tools of the soul,
to throttle, embrace, love and hate.
To gain a reputation with.

I've used these hands to read and write,
and pick up the curved body of a hollow guitar,
to encompass this solitary life.
Plucking at the heartstrings of the inanimate,
with no response, other than the echoed melody repeated back.

My unmarred hands lie pale and soft,
waiting for the warmth of another empty heart.
I'll let these hands lie at their sides.
Out of view from their pitiful sight.
Until i come across a change,
to grab a rope as its thrown.
And squeeze it till my hands get tough,
and red and raw as the heart I now love.
An in this chance i will intertwine,
your hands soft life-lines with all of mine.