Sounds

(Written 20 August 2016, at 2:00 am.)

the sounds you make, the sounds you hear
are sounds of arrogance and sounds of fear
you perceive the rattles of a funeral pyre
you make excuses for unapologetic gunfire

the sounds i make, the sounds i hear
are sounds of oppression, loud and clear
i silence the vibrations of the world around
and blame it on the sound of sound.

a scrape, a tear, an unintelligible moan
are all it takes for a stone
to come to life and fight for life
while you and i sit idly by.

your oblivion, my consumption, are at par
in all that matters, and all we are
as we continue to strip imaginary layers
of meaning and unmeaning in worldly prayers.

alas, it is you, alas, it is me,
upon whom falls this moment of "poetry",
that knows no better but to pretend
like it must matter in the end.

but you know naught, and i know less,
that all of this auditory duress,
is for no reason good, and no reason bad
but a simple state of affairs,
exceedingly sad.

Could You

(Written 18 June 2016, at 1:48 am.)

could you, would you, ever have known
the lengths to which i would have flown
to look in your eyes and hold your hand?

could you, would you, ever have guessed
just how i believed myself blessed
to build castles with you in the sand?

and now, here (or there?) we are
forever forgotten in time's bar
sipping naught but a whiskey grand.

Could

(Written 3 March 2016, 4:40 am.)

You could have forgotten the nuances that meant nothing.
Instead, they're all I remember of you --
The things that mean or would mean nothing,
But the things that paint me blue.

You could have held me together in the palm of your hand.
Instead, I fell apart at your feet.
You watched, and sympathized, and tried so hard
To use reason to make, in me, reason and madness meet.

You could have breathed the shards of my being,
And gravitated my edges to your fingertips.
Instead, I bled into the vacuum of space
And time drank me in drunken sips.

Night

(Written 27 February 2016, 10:44 pm.)

Has your broken love mended the fences of my willingness?
Your incessant presence is a strangeness and confusion I take for granted
And forget.
Like the night forgets the sun
And revels in the dense darkness,
Never questioning or wondering about the light that will soon take over.

Waiting

Every moment of acknowledged waiting,

Filled with heavy pain,

As words stand me up once again.

The competition to be the first

To stop caring about the other

Remains disputed.