The Right Kind of Words

Someday, when sunrise dares to compare itself to you,
You in all your morning radiance,
You, searing white light in all your awe,
I will toil endlessly
To find just the right kind of words
To tell you, if I get the chance,
Just how much I lost
When I thought I could lose you
And live to tell the tale.

Every time I think of you,
I die a thousand deaths,
My own hands leading me to hell,
Notes scribbled on my palms,
"you reap what you sow".

This harvest has been the death of me,
And I keep on dying still,
But with every ebb of life,
I will still struggle against hope,
To find you just the right kind of words.

Perhaps then,
I'll die one last time,
and never again.

Celebration

"Haha, sorry. I can be really anti-social when I want to."

"And when do you want to?"

"I'm not quite sure."

"How about we figure out when and why - not socially, of course - whenever you have the time?"

"That sounds like something I could do. You pick a time, and I'll pick a spot on the beach."

"I hope we won't be drawing lines in the sand."

-

No, we won't; just lines under questions long overdue for answers.

Chains

I bear true and an existing witness

to this barrel of monkeys.

A self proclaimed immoral success,

perfected by each whereof

individually deadly and equally so

and spread about the surrendered troops,

for even thousands of miles will not

tear apart their communication, or the lack thereof.

Vultures, liars, thieves, each proclaim their innocence

In no suggestion or rhyme, your weapon is contained in

the wrecking of the keeping the desired effect.

The breaking of the spirit thwarts the whole being.

Your weapon is guilt, your weapon is guilt, your weapon is guilt.

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