In the night

when all the lies are put to bed

and you're sleeping in your sin

think of me and think of now

never pause and wonder how

come back and see what you can be totally, indifferently

you're stolen moments addressed, assessed and put to rest

you're heartbreak, that I'd break just to see you innovate

She's a Weakness

She makes me feel like I am losing

I drive to her house just to feel broken

walk the hallways in shame and I don't want to leave

in that room I fell for sin

In that room I fell for you

In that room dreams were born

And in that room they all were torn

I hold on her hand

because she knows my fears

I walk out her door

Because she knows my flaws

It's frightening to see that we're all we have

It's frightening to know I'm not alone

Never satisfied never content

In that room where i'll stay

Yellow

Ironically, the catholicon to life, is life itself. We tend to have this severe disinclination to see what is in front of us. This is the foundation of discontentment. To live, really live, in all it's pain, and bittersweet moments, is to simply be free from the strains of life.

Unfortunately, humans were never so strong with simplicity. We over analyze and complicated the elementary of things, taking away their fundamental values. Appreciation is something this generation substantially lacks. We find juxtaposition in things that were meant to align. We search out selfish intentions in selfless acts. We critique to such an extent we can no longer enjoy the creativity in flaw.

If a stranger were to explore my room, they'd find old love letters stashed between The Sun Also Rises and Breakfast at Tiffany's on my bookshelf. The correlation between young love and the contents of the literature were unintended and yet undeniable.
For me, young love was stealing street signs, and sneaking out. It was the love of thrill, of newness and discovery. There was a significant lack of this concept of consequence. We did what we felt like doing, and it was innocence because we never took the time to think otherwise.
I never considered my youthful emotions towards this stranger as love. My idea of love is corrupted and when I use the term it is only for lack of one more suitable. Real love, the kind that art thrives from, is only present for me in the case of my family. Real love is appreciation and embracement of another's flaws. It's contentment. It's simple and undemanding. Real love, involves pain and an excrutiating analysis of another's life. Their mistakes and stolen moments must be put on display and accepted.

I'm Not Really a Lover

The murmurs of a new voice keeps me from sleeping

so I wrap my legs in unfamiliar sheets

and note how they feel the same

a plummeting vulnerability

a parting lip

taste the uncertainty

salty and sure

You are more real than I am capable of

dare me to open

You read me so well

like an old love letter worn from persistent eyes

I wonder if anything can truly endure

I see this as fleeting as a handprint on a cold window

I hear my doubts in your voice

I think of the naivety in feelings

I wonder how we got here

How I got here

Contemplate the past

when I'd look into his eyes

I didn't know how to love

but I knew how to look in love

I don't want this for you

for us

Your soft and your wise

a child's blanket

Secure and accepting

It's to late to untaste your hunger and my need

can you fall without guarantee

can you hold without arms

can you wait without time