Home may be where the heart is,
but I have yet to find my heart.

And so I wander on and on
in a frozen circle,
not desiring fame or wealth
or the one-night stand
of any particular night
with a beauty broken enough
to want to submit to me –
I speak, of course, of the night.

I don’t crave all the wants I can get
or all the women I can want
or the power to forget
all the hurts I have brought
or remains of pain delivered to me,
for I am its home;
I am its heart, without a heart
of my own.

My one wish
is for a place
to rest my head.

Waiting Room

I’m too old
I look too young
I’m too depressed
A song already sung
I’m too unmotivated
I’m too sad
My better times
Are only a fad
I’m alone too much
I have too little
When I think
My thoughts are brittle
I speak too clearly
Say what’s on my mind
And people become
Much harder to find
I’m much too honest
Far too sincere
Which is far too scary
For others to hear
I give too much
And receive much less
But it’s all for the sake
Of trying my best
But my best is lacking
I come up too short
I judge myself often
On top of judgments of your sort
I’m too trapped
too regretful
too nice
too silent
too slow
too tolerant
too patient
too strange
too unfeeling
too separate
too shameless
too much like no one
of a comfortable range
I feel too much
Yet not enough
Every tease of happiness
Is merely a bluff
I’m too damaged
More and more battered
Too insignificant
To actually matter
I’m too specific with words
To have a place called “home”
So even in death
I’ll wait as I roam
I can’t enter into Heaven
I don’t righteous too well
And as I’m too good
I’m unwelcome in Hell

The Autumn They Share

The autumn leaf never fell for the wind,
for it falls every day.
Life has hardened it crisp and coarse
and easy to crumble,
but the wind sweeps it off its base
to carry it away
as autumn wind cradles the fragile leaf
to together tumble,
without care,
entwined in their fate,
kissing the autumn they share.

The Observant

My fingers slip around the green, green stems,
cupping then releasing to cup the next,
every flower the same yellow as the cliché sun
drawn and colored on a child’s blank canvas,
silently conveying
what is thought and felt
of the world pulsing within them.

Their petals sway in the surrounding winds,
the same winds that buoy the wings of bees
as they float from flower to flower,
hoping men who examine their actions
don’t use their actions
as an excuse for behavior
of a completely different nature.

Phantom You

she said, “I’ll see you when I get back.”
and as i walked away, i looked back,
because of a feeling i had
that i’d never see her again,
and i wanted to see her one more time.

this is the reason i keep looking back.

Empathy For God

Whichever where I’m going,
if there’s a where in which to go,
whether it be a place such as Heaven
or a where that no one knows
or no place cradled in existence
with no respect to the path I chose,

I wish to be clear to avoid illusions
on where it is I wish to be,
for the road upward is not a choice
that I can gather is for me,
for Heaven is a rest in joy
but lacks freedom to feel freely.

No, I don’t want to go to a Heaven
where there’s only one color of sane,
where I can’t cry over what’s missing
as what’s sadly missing is any pain.
What is Heaven to me, what can Heaven be,
if I’m unable to relate to the rain?

A Lovely Vision ‘fore Waking (Titles Only)

To anyone who followed my 31-Day Poem over the whole 31 days, I have to ask a question: did you notice that the titles of the poems rhymed? This is because, when I came up with the second day’s title, I thought I’d give myself an extra challenge, so I figured I’d write the titles of the 31-Day Poem as their own poem. Here they all are below, every title. Please enjoy. 🙂

A lovely vision ‘fore waking
A realization forsaking
Balance once held
In lives so veiled
But only questions fester
In a heart’s court jester
Toward one’s forlorn path
And a beautiful wall’s wrath
As a lingering to succumb
Cradles a lingering numb
While temptation can never cease
In a smothering for inner peace
Though our faults share a bond
Souls swim a frozen pond
Drawn by the most attractive sin
And a possible future of where we’ve been
For what is possible is what is done
Under the corpse of a setting sun
For what isn’t possible occurs not
When seeking a feeling of loss to rot
Even knowing the season will change
To a time for chaos to arrange
That which has a right to confuse
A stirring of a slumbering muse
As what’s lost stays loss
When living comes at no cost
But not all is what it seems
For those unworthy, fate has deemed
Those consumed by inadvertent nothing
Where mercy can’t bring herself to sing
Where pain is peace swaying on a string

A Lovely Vision ‘fore Waking (Full 31-Day Poem)

For the past 31 days, I’ve taken part in a 31-Day Poem challenge set forth by fellow WordPresser and all-around beautiful lady Maja. Check out her blog, Business In Rhyme, and do read her exquisite 31-Day Poem. In case anyone wants to read my 31-Day Poem in full, here it is below, all 93 stanzas, all 372 lines, all 1,977 words. Please enjoy. 🙂

Her auburn braid is average,
but not so, as it is she who wears it.
Her medium-frame glasses
rest neat on the bridge of her nose.

Her white shirt buttoned just high enough
to feign formal,
her hazel eyes only pretend to not notice me,
and in this way,
pay me every attention in the world.

We have spent a lifetime together
yet have not met. Can she will herself
to being, from being just a dream?

Lost on me
is what I feel and why.

Lost on me
is her desire for us, if any.

Lost on my gaze unto her star
is the distance between us
that begs the question:
how long ‘til her warmth finds me?
Does it even seek?

And if it does seek
and if it does find,
will it be cruel or
will it be kind?

Can I take the risk?
Shall I take the chance?
Do I undertake
in frightening romance?

Frisky I crave,
risky I receive.
Diminish any hope
for insanity’s reprieve.

I close my eyes and take a breath.
Sounds multiply.

Three old friends chatting politics,
one obviously more dominant
than the other two in opinion.
A young woman typing,
her work obviously more important
than the ring she wasn’t wearing.
Teenage boy sitting with girl,
their drama so obviously too much
for them to understand it’s too much.

I am free exactly as I am.

Why would I want to fall in love
when love should lift me up?
Why would I want to fall?

Is she supposed to catch me?
Is that how falling works?
What if she doesn’t catch me?
What if she doesn’t want to?

Then my emotion has nowhere to go
but down.
Then I have nowhere to go
but into the abyss of self-pity.
How could I know to catch myself?

Tired of it all.

Tired of thinking I want,
tired of thinking I need.
Tired of failing,
for a single chance to succeed.

Tired of having no chance,
tired of having no hope.
Tired of using the word “tired,”
but still repeating the pattern
like a failing dope.

And as my eyes sag their troubles,
that’s how I know
I’m on my own.

And as rhyme stops flowing
in every part of my life,
that’s when I believe
I lost my way.

And as the empty space beside me
on a bed of a single, dull nail
refuses to quit shouting silence,
that’s what it takes for me to feel
she is missing.

Maybe the distance is for the best.
Maybe it was better for her
that I expected nothing in return
when paying for her bus ride
‘cause she didn’t have exact change.

Maybe it was better for her
that I took less than what she offered
when she offered my favorite candy to me.

Maybe it was better for her
that I betrayed fate, only returning a smile
as I stood and left, saying, “Good night.
Thank you for the Gummi Bears.”

I lay my head,
not praying for sleep.
No laughs for sitcoms
while delaying a weep.
Should I? Should I not?

Should I weep? Should I sleep?
Is there a tangible difference
in this monotone deep?

Should I sleep? Should I weep?
Or shall I seek
to regret in dark
a blameless devil’s reap?

Truly, I am the victim,
how can this not be?
A victim of love songs and poetry
and a Valentine society.

When is my day?
When will it come?
When do smile-filled rejections
quit milking my trend to feel dumb?

Truly, my protective actions, my walls,
hold no reason to be ashamed.
As with anyone else, her innocent rebuff
would have hit me entirely the same.

If the past wasn’t the past,
would I, in the present,
feel how I do?

But even so, the struggle remains
even as another crosses my path.

Her lengthy, blonde hair
and adorably mousy voice
match her height to perfection.
Her somewhat dull blue jeans
hug her never dull curves
in such a way
that I must look away.

She bears walls of her own.
For that I’m glad,
though behind her smile
rumbles a storm of sad.

I wish to turn away,
I truly do,
but her ache calls to me
in a desperate hue.

I wish to turn away;
this is what must be.
How can I save her
if I can’t save me?

I tell myself
we don’t belong together.
I assure myself
she will find someone better.

Why does she need saving?
Why do I need saving?
Why can’t we be broken
in the company of one another?

Why can’t our slivers and shards
fit flawlessly
as if flawed pieces clasping as one
was meant to be?

But why isn’t there someone better for her?
Likely, she is sought after by many wolves
surrounding her with their starving eyes,
their chests heaving over their continuously
empty bellies as they nip sharply
at her silk, silver dress, prying a weakness,

or it could be she receives no attention,
despite the beauty she holds but doesn’t see
because others aren’t telling her it’s there.

But if paid no attention by wolves,
this allows her to build up her own self-worth
in such a way that isn’t reliant on dogs at play.

Why should I be a wolf
and hunt prey wearing skirts?
What has she done to deserve me
and all of the inevitable hurts?

See how I look at her?
As if I need her in my bed?
As if I must caress each curve
and do to her what I’m led?

How is what we call romance
not a manipulation to this end?
Why is this romanticized game
the will to which we bend?

This is how I much I care for her,
I must let her be.
Rather than cage a magnificent bird,
I prefer her flying free.

And yet, I find myself
wishing for the cage,
not for her, but for me.

I crave the uncertainty of togetherness,
of her lying back in my arms,
adjusting herself slightly for comfort,
her palm a delicate stroke on my cheek
as a guide for me to lean in to kiss our smiles.

All she must say is yes
through her disappointed eyes.
All she must say is yes
through her frowning lips.
All she must say is yes
through her withered, young soul.
All she must say is yes
and we can begin to bloom.

All she must say is
a word that lets me in.
All she must say
gives me a chance to be everything.

My lips brush hers
and that’s all she allows
as she backs away.
She learned to breathe on her own.

The signs were wrong,
or I wrote them to be so,
wishing for that reality.
She learned to breathe on her own.

Her eyes reflect an answer
to my hanging my head
in embarrassment for not seeing
she learned to breathe on her own.

I convince myself I’m better off
without her. I convince myself
I don’t want anyone.
I convince myself
I like being alone.

But the desire for companionship
still lies underneath the layers,
merging black and white to gray.
What else can I not convince myself of today?

How else? How else can I feel more the failure,
whether alone or not in this game of love?
Why does either picture offer me no way to win?

Is this not the point of the game,
to win?
What would I win?

Someone to tell me what to read?
Someone to tell me to not talk
during the movie?
Someone whose burdens I must bear?
Someone to chastise me for being unfair?

What would I want to trade
my freedom for?
Maybe for someone who will admire
my hyper-clean toilet?

What would I want to trade
my freedom for?
Who would I want to trade
my freedom for?

Flowers bloom without my soothing breath.
The sun warms without my loving embrace.
Colors change without my tender kiss.
Snowflakes fall without my finger’s trace.

All of this I know,
and still,
in the wintery distance,
a villainous beauty awaits.

The tips of her highlighted brown hair
slip past her petite, silk shoulders
as her glance sways to find me.
Her semi-loose outfit seems expensive,
but only because she is wearing it.
Her Cleopatra liner streaks thin
from her courageous ocean eyes
as the glimmering waves entrance
every fragment of my broken heart.

I never stood a chance.

She is a queen,
and resistance is futile.

My thoughts have traveled
many crooked paths
that have somehow led
straight to her.
My emotions the same
as they line up in a neat order,
beginning with fear.

Why do I feel as if I could fall
and would enjoy the fear of falling?

Is that why my knees are weak
around her? Am I trying
to tell myself something?

Gazing into her lively eyes
is like gazing into the wealthy night sky.

But rather than rich in empty space,
a breadth of charm and grace
and subtle quirkiness
bringing a smile to my face
is infinite within her.

And the stars burn in her eyes, gleam
contagious passion and hope
and the kind of childish dreams
that cannot help
but to come true.

How can I resist attachment?
How can I resist her?

Indeed, her energy is calming,
her presence addicting;
and though becoming attached
may be wrong,
she is the perfect high
I’ve lost entirely too much sleep
searching for.

Indeed, she renders me to believe
my curve toward detachment
was pure bullshit.

I wonder what it would be like with her.

Seeing who falls asleep first
while watching more movies
than we know we can stay awake for.
Singing and cooking and dancing
as I spin her around
while burning the pancakes.
Laughing as we read,
using dialogue to exchange
our bad celebrity impressions.
Being the one she nestles her head upon

when all she wants to do is be with me.

There is so much about her
that changes who I am.
There is someone else I want to be.

I want to be the perfect-fitting piece
to the puzzle she’s unable to solve.
I want to be the person whose hand
her hand seeks.
I want to be the one who adores her
simply as she is, because she is.

But I can’t,
as her joyous stride snakes her past me.
There is someone else I want to be.

Out of a corner of my eye,
catching a glance of an angel
whose wings settle into
another man’s strong arms,
I have to be happy
for her, for them both.
I have to. I set myself up for this.

Why do they all pass me?
Why do they all?

Science would have me believe
my genes aren’t well.
I happen to agree.

They all seem to see it,
they all seem to see.
Is solitary confinement
what it means to be free?

Madness and emptiness
in rival existence.
A hushing of it all
at sanity’s insistence.

Will no one solve the mystery
of how to fancy
someone who doesn’t feel love?

Someone reaching up
to Heaven’s bliss
as it refuses to match
his caring kiss.

Someone reaching over
to emptiness around,
while a lost soul
begs to be found.

Someone reaching in
to his heart’s truth:
I don’t blame anyone
for me being me.

These attractions were wrong
anyway, as they can only ever be
disrupted by a swift memory,

one that I have let go
but will not let go of me.

It’s the last I had, the last
I want. It’s the very reason
I’m glad for rejection
to be my life’s theme.
It’s the sole reason
a lovely vision (or three)
wills to remain a dream.