Even When

Melancholy has a way of visiting unexpectedly, and I hate it. I wish she'd give me more notice, so I wouldn't burst into tears every time I think of your voice. You cause me more grief than you should, you know. I just thought to let you know, especially since you're not quite sure how we fit anymore. Christ, as if I knew how we're supposed to act, as civility has gone out the wayside. My dear, I can't imagine ever harming you intentionally, even at this point in time, so must these torments be as often as they are? Or are you just exhausting us for a reason? I'm hoping for the later, but sometimes I feel like I don't know you. Sometimes, when I'm laying my head down to breathe in the late night, I don't know what you feel for me, or if you did at all! I'm sure at one point you did, but now you've hurt me, and I'm lost.

Darling, I'm lost, but please don't go looking for me, even if love has compelled you.

Simply Because I Can

Simply because I can love you
Doesn't mean I should --
When were you ever right for me?
This love is juvenile, unfortunately.
Nothing was to bloom from a moment.
But, must I reconcile with the reality
Of your nature, of my nature and
Of everything consumed by reality?
I cannot imagine myself deliberately
Negating that you lacked the maturity to love;
I refuse to believe the excuse everyone gifts you:
Excuses were never viable to begin with.
I cannot imagine myself not taking you seriously,
Yet, at this rate: I'll have to.

Fear

Sometimes, people cannot reconcile with themselves well enough to see the truth. I, for one, cannot bear to lie to myself after committing that crime once. There is no use in being dishonest with the one person I will always be with -- myself. Yet, how can I transcend what I have learned to those who may need it, or who especially need it? How can I tell if they've blanketed themselves well enough to keep the chill of the bitter truth out, while caressing a heartache that is festering? To what help is this mute discourse?
Oh, God, so help me if he's hurt. Allow her capricious satisfaction be enough to keep him happy. Allow her dirty whims be enough for him to wake up with an unprecedented excitement to see the morrow. But, if his love is honest and pure, then please make hers his equal. Allow them to combine under veracity, and not under the confines of stealth, lies, and manipulative tactics.
Yet, if he has the lining of doubt, get him out of there. Save him from the tumultuous life he could lead if he stays. Save him! so as to let him learn the moral.

Paradoxes

I hate admitting to myself every night, like some sort of cynic's lullaby, that I screwed up. I wish you the best, but my God, I hate having to admit defeat. This is what emotional suicide feels like, I'm pretty sure. I love you, so I left you, but I still love you. See the problem in that? I'm feeling it.

I Don't Need My Words to Rhyme

I don't need my words to rhyme
when i have the rhythm of your love

I don't need to be masked by the shell of my clothes
now that your warmth has painted me caramel

I don't need the rough beats on the radio
when the melody of your voice is chorally divine

I don't need the paint strokes of the Picasso's in the gallery
when the strokes of your lips against mine transcend longer...further

I don't need the romantic fields of England
when your chest depicts the vastness of the Mediterranean

I don't need laws, governments, or religion
now that your love is the unspoken promise of Heaven

Questions.

How is it that things got this way? Where I no longer can breathe without having to worry about those around me? I heard the world's sadness in your voice when I admitted to you what kind of person I was, even though it was never your fault. But I wasn't programmed this way, was I? I surely couldn't have been born to birth and nurture the pains of those around me. Certainly I am more than just a cynic waiting for karma to kick in. There has to be more to life than just the constant suffering that I put myself through. There has to be more to life than this.

If mornings weren't so bright.

If mornings weren't so bright;
If the moon weren't so beautiful;
If the youth of our lives would transcend
I'd be more compelled to you.
These harsh treatises I write in my heart
Are because I had not any idea.
I was blinded, and not by your love.
Indecision blocked from me that which I want most.
My own stupid indecision is now killing me.
Everyday, I see you, your smile, your eyes,
And I just remember.
I remember a time when loving you was simple, easy.
But all I have left now are shards.
Shards that I can't decipher.
Shards created by self-loathing.
Self-loathing birthed from regret.

Well.

Who's to say that I'll want to wake up if I fall asleep? This waking torture is growing to be unbearable. I have never tasted the bitter wine of regret, and now that I'm drowning in it, waiting for you to come save me, I can see why you wouldn't. But please, I'm begging you, do come and save me. Just this once. I'll repay you in the currency of love, and revenge and anything else you want. I'd stop time, if that's what you'd want. Dammit! Can't you see? I'm out of my mind with all the honesty I'm trying to exude; these aren't mere tantrums! Nor am I being dishonest. Nor have I been. Please listen to me when I say I love you. Please hear my pleas. Please don't let my flails of distress appear to be waves from afar.