time.

there's a man in a suit just out of my reach,

he teleports from side to side, mocking my slow motions.

gray suit entangles with the concrete just ahead,

bright red tie pulling him apart before me,

nimble black dress shoes prancing along my vision.

who is this man?

what does he do?

his name is thyme.

dont mix and drive.

everything slow, nothing remembered,

slow motion, but skipping like a bad tape.

insightful and developed,

the world was so many shades of white.

our breaths, masks against the cold night,

the stars brought the sky to me,

the ground, so far down.

can't speak, breathing unconscious.

sinking into the leather and cloth.

recurring images, park.

button up, whir of gears, destination high.

one of those dreams.

she awoke in a grey dust,

back stiff and limbs cold,

her white cocoon made of porcelain.

rolling over the side,

she stumbles into a mixed upworld,

there's a bathtub in the living room.

suspected.

blood-stained counter top,

granite gleaming speckled black.

smoke slowly filters through the strangely still air,

cigarette butt digging its way into the overflowing tray,

ashes sprinkled about the wet table.

a lonely sheet of paper

absorbing fluid, no resolve, just subconscious action.

contaminated knife disregarded on the floor.

rewind.

responsiblities vanished,
cold air rushing past my worn eyes,
freezing every particle of feeling.

into that room we went,
black tablets and plastic cards,
a little snow to last the night.

start slow, never mind,
let it all go,
faster, faster.
take it all,
plus a little more.

wander those vacant streets that call your name,
remember what true happiness feels like,
let emotion consume you.

do you remember how it felt before?
was time ever actually a unit of measurement?
or was it always ahead of you,
you just walking in its footprints?

call me princess.

promise me a castle,
a trip over the rainbow,
tell me im a princess,
i need to hear those words.

soft pillow against my back,
the screen's right in front of me,
words spewing from every clock,
emotions painting the room
a simple yellow.

you sat next to me on a pedestal,
looked at me from a distance
when doing forbidden things.

there was comfort,
there was a dream,
but princesses carry
the most broken hearts.

fixes.

tape, glue, cement.
how strong of a fix do you need
for that broken soul of yours.

a quick fix: tape.
a swift high, a pop low,
unastable, unreliable.
a thin layer covering
the clear problem.

an adequate mend: glue.
white, gooey, hard to use,
a little longer to cure,
a little longer to break.
heals strong,
but visible crack form soft black ines,
a life is put back together
with friendly help.

long term: cement.
a new start,
a fresh relation.
building again that broken soul,
building up to break again,
but just a little stronger,
just a little thicker.

every time, another choice.
every crack, a new decision.
every life, so many breaks.

corruption.

maybe ive been doing it wrong,
maybe i should have listened,
hisses suggesting its too soon,
im too young.

hurried hunger,
desperate for desire,
lusting for love,
crying for care.

summer begins and something cracks,
dispositions dissolves and we emerge,
something breezy,
determined to conquer kingdoms.

but truly, this isnt true.
our awkward exchanges reveal our true age.

your heart cracked too young,
and now, you have nothing left.

throw away your birthday suit.

this is a game.
here are the rules.
you have a one night stand.
you care, he doesnt.
those are the rules.
do you wish to play?

unabashed lust is not for the faint hearted,
you must be strong, intact.

he will play with you,
touch you lovingly,
convince your soul,
your pulse completes a marathon
by the time you both are done.
fullfilled exhaustion excreted with every heavy breath.

and then you'll fall asleep,
pretend for a moment that this is true,
that this one night will last forever,
you sleeping in the arms of your human heater,
never letting go, feeling whole.

early the next morning, you have to leave.
obligations tug you away,
when all you want to do is stay.

from then on out,
you never speak of that night,
you may never even speak again,
and that is the game you have entered obliviously.

dear poetry club,

Love is a common topic in these four walls,
we talk about finding love, keeping love, having Love.
i used to be able to write of love,
but Love has pushed me away.

i no longer stand in Love's good graces,
shoved off into the outskirts,
the lonely heart.

the past used a shredder on my heart,
contricted my veins,
slowed the ever quiet patter
of that almost worthless organ.

i wish i could be like you, or you,
to be Love's friend,
to feel Love's gentle touch on my body,
but the beating of my heart has been handicapped,
Love has choked me, degraded me.

i no longer feel free to Love,
but wander in her steps,
hoping to find again what you write about,
to be sated with amour,
to be complete with one again.

another fish.

bright hook dimly illuminating the empty soul,
swimming in the shadows,
feeling for warmth.

caught.

tether to the heart,
ripping with each unwanted tug,
shreds drifting about,
a heart floating in the sea.

brought ashore, foreign land.
told what to do, what to think,
remember the familiar waters,
imagining no thoughts.

i jump ship,
drown myself in the sea,
left to my own desires,
owning my own thoughts.

thoughtless.

overdosed on compliments,
write her a song,
sing about her beauty,
sing about your love.

the world is hers,
striding with her graceful line,
she knows what she can accomplish
with her long pinky finger.

she attends the events,
photographs with the right crowd,
perfect, or so it seems,
when her mind is no where near.