Times Are Hard For Dreamers

Was it a sleepful illusion, my remembering you have no want of me? How strange it is feeling a sense of unmerited silence —a rejection of spirits, almost. It felt like a heavy dream my almost loving you—whomever you are.   Were you wanting Kate Moss? A ransom of burning elegance? Perhaps a small poem for a flicker of pleasure? Or was it more so a person to care affectionately   for you? Was it a person to yield? A stillness ever crafted to listen? With cupped hands, I would have passed it all to you, friend.   You can have it all, even now.   I am a circle.   I am somehow, a lush green Edward Hopper painting of a woman reading on a slow passing train with an orange bridge of light though   a window. It may interest you to know, I am   also a comforting black sweater as   soft and sad as Summer’s last night   of stars.   I am not, however, Kate Moss or a stunning, erotic be...

XX // Tonight I Can Write // Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to br...

I keep watching outside my window, waiting for something equally ridiculous as miraculous to happen to me. I keep waiting for you to walk up my street, say, "Hello",  and shake my right hand. Perhaps if we shake our hands we can create enough energy to exhaust the clouds imprisoned in my head and disperse my evil thoughts about you right now. Perhaps they will go away for good. On a good day, I am subject to watch the small pieces of myself scatter away, heaving from my chest, and then slowly reassemble themselves completely. You are far away from me, friend. You won't speak and I am left to assume anything in the silence--the worst and comparably impossible about you and now myself, too. How can you come so far? How could I allow room for such despair and endless caring? How can you patronize me so? All the words? Every writing? Here I thought I was gentle, I was promising! In words I felt compassion and flight of a chorus. I felt something akin to honesty. Almost,...

To find God, to draw closer to the source  of existence; to know oneself, one's origin, one's place. To understand the unanswerable                           the unknown                                      "life". To conclude the unceasing quest for purpose. To exist. To know. To know.      

people say I think too much. I don't feel that way at all. I think I think too little, not enough, not at all. this life is embryonic and I am but a thought. I am nothing. I am nothing. I am tired.

my mind can't shut off. I remember telling someone once, "You can't ever turn your mind off. Even when you're bored, you're always thinking of something." I think of you; I hate myself, I try to teach myself how to love those who hurt me and it's easy. But to love myself, that is the endless quest I am given in life. it's heavy. so very, very heavy. -- ↯