1899.

Today is caught like
webs in the crosshairs of a
past long forgotten.

1898.

When you stand at the
horizon of your life, what
will be stitched inside?

1897.

Ink stains on bleeding
walls document the capture
of paper mimes here.

1896.

Silence, the repose
of deliberate actions
oft spoken intent

1895.

Time is a trapped, wild
animal, caged by a clock's
static dissection.

1894.

As the day wakens,
the sounds of life begin to
emerge and expand.

1893.

All the guileless hearts
offer tender overtures
to acquiesce to.

1892.

This night's slight, hopeful
haze of dusty twilight holds
me in its beauty.

1891.

You see me through a
window, painted in moisture,
muted to vision.

1890.

Always seeking some
promise, impossible though
its believing is.

1889.

Too often I am
seduced by melancholy
instead of people.

1888.

Can it be any
wonder that people are cruel
with such loneliness?

1887.

Love so often feels
like neglect when memory
is lfet to decay.

1886.

The clouds take on the
characteristics of its
viewer's moodiness.

1885.

Standing on the edge
of choice feels too much like a
lie's sweet seduction.

1884.

A generation
of empty faces and hearts
hides between my bones.

1883.

The conversation
of veins, split and rewound to
the start, is true love.

1882.

The connection of
a soul's grasp reaches across
the ethereal.

1881.

I want to roll my
body amongst the veins of
your bloody, gored heart.

1880.

He keeps mouthing all
the promises I cannot
afford to believe.

1879.

The illusion of
happiness, such a hopeless
narcotic, teasing.

1878.

Divergent choices
lead the heart toward bloodbaths
or sweet nirvana.

1877.

The expanse between
sleep and surreality slides
inside to haunt me.

1876.

I am enthralled by
what nature is offering
up for consumption.

1875.

The sky and sea, such
paired, sad overtures of the
finite ground between.

1874.

Emotions crowd for
space on love's faded lawn. So
much weary refuse.

1873.

Long since out of tune,
the thumps of each press transmit
a beat's intention.

1872.

The echo of sound
calling itself a gentle
hued foreshadowing.

1871.

Stuck in the morass
of emotion's quagmire, left
to a slow drowning.

1870.

Only voodoo can
do justice to the union
of all held within.

1869.

Where this framework of
inching events began to
again feel like love.

1868.

And together, like
carnival clowns, we fell down
into its passing.

1867.

Here, our bodies curved
into the hollows of each
other, is soft love.

1866.

A meeting of hope,
when our hearts seek to meet their
match across distance.

1865.

Thanksgiving, the tool
by which appreciation
should be extended.

1864.

How very little
you know is obvious by
how loud you tell it.

1863.

The burst of color
bleeds from my eyes in slow
drawn kaleidoscopes.

1862.

The unrelenting
visual emotions in
the sky today, storms.

1861.

Your image is the
flower pressed in homage of
hope between my bones.

1860th.

The brilliance of fields,
gently turned and beautiful,
feel like so much hope.

1859th.

The entire world
passes in solitary
blinks. Always lonely.

1858.

Here, between empty
faces, a warning transmits
like a lullaby.

1857.

Stuck in the morass
of emotion's quagmire, left
to a slow drowning.

1856.

Only voodoo can
do justice to the union
of all held within.

1855.

Characterized by
the dulcet waiting, a hymn,
reverberating.

1854.

And together, like
carnival clowns, we fell down
into its passing.

1853.

Trying to find new
chambers to carve into the
fired synapses.

1852.

Our bodies meeting
to try and match the machines
of heart's together.

1851.

Memory, the tool
through which knowledge forms its own
chance at making change.

1850.

The dream of love so
often supersedes moody
heart's reality.

1849.

Dull machinations
turn men into monsters with
such disturbing ease.

1848.

Floating stars, cast like
dreams across the sky, fill my
nights with gentle hope.

1847.

For every moment
of feeling, this mosaic
envelops me more.

1846.

Each handshake a soft,
whispered secret, passing thoughts
between palm's imprint.

1845.

The entire world
passes in solitary
blinks. Always lonely.

1844.

Her backbone, long used
as ambition's ladder, broke
its spine by bending.

1843.

A thick slate hued sky
overhangs the entire
day in foreshadow.

1842.

Her voice breaks a heart
through token protestations
of what love won't be.

1841.

The dark sings gentle
lullabies into the light
glow, down from the moon.

1840.

Afterwards, I would
swear that innocence had
worn him like mirrors.

1839.

What is matter in
a room full of decisions
long since given out.

1838.

Let your children out
to dance tonight. Free them to
experience fear.

1837.

The kiss of wind through
the window as lights blink past
teases in kisses.

1836.

The beauty of the
sky holds, as stars mirror this
emotion's disease.

1835.

The broken heart of
a sinking ship's reckless hope
that rescue might come.

1834.

Vague and absented
motivations, are the clear
keynotes of the day.

1833.

Caring for the world
should never be a burden
while your heart's beating.

1832.

Take my hand, bow to
splendor, dressed in the colors
of celebration.

1831.

Nights of warmed laughter
and silver moonlight between
the stars in your eyes.

1830.

If only my mind
didn't serve as cage to the
same ideas made there.

1829.

He speaks a constant
romance in cadence and tone,
such slow seduction.

1828.

The idea of time
better spent is more about
the thought than action.

1827.

The impatience born
of waiting always fills me
with a steady rage.

1826.

I will never love
another person with the
same complex fervor.

1825.

Time smudges the small
memories between us but
the feelings remain.

1824.

And on those ghosts run
and float within my split ribs,
my mother and hers.

1823.

Always left praying
that between us the ground won't
split. Set, division.

1822.

Bodies are bent as
furniture and lit like shrines.
Soul's genuflecting.

1821.

The psalms of belief
are etched in my spine and spilled
from my veins. Bleeding.

1820.

The unrelenting
sky stalks us in clouds and soft
shadows. Following.

1819.

Infatuation
creeps in on insidious
feet. Soft destruction.

1818.

A backward dance of
limbs, always breaking. Nothing
left. Stuttered movement.

1817.

My own ennui an
inheritance from the heart
that bore me. Fitting.

1816.

An emotion's slow
surgery. To search out the
disease, pervading.

1815.

Yet another year
passing into the mirror
with wishes heavy.

1814.

Again, today a
cacophony of joy. I
live. So just love me.

1813.

The worlds is made of
caricatures and we just
unfinished designs.

1812.

Bury me with my
puzzles so your version can
be reality.

1811.

We are an enmeshed
riot of memories and
emotion, so linked.

1810.

We are an ocean,
adrift and tumultuous,
seeking some anchor.

1809.

The colored fever
of this fall's storms, resonates
like an anchored bell.

1808.

She dresses herself
in his vision, cloaking skin
with a hungry need.

1807.

A massacre of
expended motion, spent and
forever wanting.

1806.

His eyes, a slow and
well-guarded secret, holding
gentle heart's hostage.

1805.

Hypnotization
in motion. The night a lure
of dreams and shadows.

1804.

My heart is littered
with all the ongoing works
of hope's small trials.

1803.

It is so rare now
to find someone that see the
heart within, running.

1802.

Grief too often seems
a greater amplifier
than its basis, love.

1801.

The magic of a
world that creates brains to start
and stop on command.

1800.

Your edges cut so
softly that your voice is its
own murder. Such lies.

1799.

Hope is coated in
leaves slow turning and all
color lit by fire.

1798.

For me, autumn is
the real season of blooming
and soft renewal.

1797.

Mothers too often
forget to teach children that
lost is maintenance.

1796.

My heart grows rusty
in its withered cage of lost
faith in tomorrows.

1795.

What is the fear of
a palm with no lines to give
some dream of vision?

1794.

I whisper hopes, not
at stars but on air for flight
to always return.

1793.

If only these bones
could be stardust and dark skies'
shards instead of girl's.

1792.

Her hollow insides
are concaved out as hungry
men just keep eating.

1791.

A papier mâché
always too close to fire
to avoid burning.

1790.

I burn from within
as each star turns dust when
galaxies reform.

1789.

Your voice is wrapped in
tongues and that mouth coated in
dreams. Love illusions.

1788.

I spend far too much
time forgetting things than I
do remembering.

1787.

If only knowledge
about love's intricacies
were ingrained from birth.

1786.

A lingering heat
to remind the earth of its
continuous turns.

1785.

The sky contorts and
upends itself to the ground
below. Offering.

1784.

His mouth pulses like
a tumor on my skin. Just
waiting to murder.

1783.

Anchors held like hearts
with all its weight held under
just hoping to float.

1782.

I am subsumed with
a slow, steady, persistent
melancholy now.

1781.

Tonight is built for
firesides and our talking
long into the night.

1780.

This day will always
be marked in your honor, notched
deep within my heart.

1779.

The sun is backlit
by shimmering clouds in a
bruised hue of wonder.

1778.

Autumn is right on
the horizon. Teasing the
senses for glory.

1777.

I believe I may
have outgrown the will for dreams
to be wrestled down.

1776.

Weary concepts for
exhausted bones. Always pushed
to keep moving. Stop.

1775.

How odd that after birth,
our entire life is spent
just running from death.

1774.

Impasses just mask
crossroads that sit with a wolf
on each side, waiting.

1773.

This hearts wants to live
the type of dream that the head
no longer believes.

1772.

This anchor in my chest
stays a steady hunger. So
ravenous in need.

1771.

The idea of a
forever is only built
for atoms, not skin.

1770.

A circle of hope
and light cast into gentle,
deceptive splendor.

1769.

If only clouds could
be beds, coming down to pick
up dreamers each night.

1768.

A soft lull in the
onslaught, caught within the snare
of slow surrender.

1767.

Autumn keeps calling.
Wishful dreams kept at bay with
the summer's malice.

1766.

I dream of us, tied
in a slow sinking. Our hearts
such heavy anchors.

1765.

The idea of his
surrender lures far more than
its reality.

1764.

That longing sits just
beneath my breast in a slow
beating, until death.

1763.

A diaspora
of the senses. Displaced like
such empty fodder.

1762.

Nothing will ever
belong to me as closely
as these cells in skin.

1761.

Press my bones down and
mold them into some form of
macabre puppetry.

1760.

Ply my flesh with a
hunger that ignores reason
and paints our secrets.

1759.

A lust that hunts her
desperation and wears it
down past some salvage.

1758.

Just because you don't
mar flesh doesn't mean that you're
not still a bully.

1757.

When they told you that
people were fragile, you saw
a chance to break them.

1756.

An appreciable
loss of worth for every
moment set between.

1755.

When we are apart
memory tricks me into
forgetting your ills.

1754.

Your absence when it
matters erases all that
time held together.

1753.

This absence of home
offers up the chance for such
a stalwart building.

1752.

Possession is an
idea we keep confusing
for such enslavement.

1751.

How can that skin I
once had inside now be a
a thing left unknown.

1750.

The attention you
give my details should exceed
the point of friction.

1749.

Sacrificing your
heart is its own suicide.
He is not worth death.

1748.

Why should I need to
change my scripts simply because
your lines are different?

1747.

Faulty premises
that undervalue moral
high ground to bottom.

1746.

She rewrites the past
and then blames that history
on its foundation.

1745.

You douse me in your
passion but then forget to
mind the low embers.

1744.

How can you ever
stop burning when your heart is
so set on arson?

1743.

A brilliance eclipsed
by all that weighing darkness.
Those ghosts are heavy.

1742.

Burials that turn
into steady games set as
slow resurrection.

1741.

He coats his love in
pity and then laments the
tides as such sorrow.

1740.

A weight's balance, set
to continual tipping.
A cynic's wet dream.

1739.

I keep forgetting
about the burden that comes
with his attention.

1738.

If only my mind
could literally create
my reality.

1737.

Some introverts live
in a rich inner world that
exceeds the outer.

1736.

Everything comes
at the brain's direction so
the heart should follow.

1735.

If only you could
choose on whom your love would stick.
Safety in picking.

1734.

You keep coating me
in your lies and wondering
why I keep drowning.

1733.

Stars hand out wishes
under the same hope that hangs
the moon by a leash.

1732.

The sky is a lure
that captures vision and holds
dreams hostage at night.

1731.

It's a wonder that
any of us survive each
year. Hatred abounds.

1730.

Tempers escalate
alongside those gauges in
a joint turn, horror.

1729.

This unrelenting
heat the fodder of so much
rage and destruction.

1728.

His heart sometimes feels
like a black hole always set
to steady hunger.

1727.

A miasma of
negative confluence that
just wears and then drowns.

1726.

This life has to have
some kind of restart, maybe
just blind erasure.

1725.

Your love treads softly
but still scars for all of its
worn expectation.

1724.

Even anchors grow
weary as rust pries at their
exoskeleton.

1723.

All these hearts just worn
down to tissue. A constant
cycle of tearing.

1722.

The ego only
sees itself in every
view. So myopic.

1721.

Smoke and mirrors as
even new players wear the
same heart underneath.

1720.

An interruption
of status quos as a change
brews off screen, stage left.

1719.

Supplementation
of meaning for purpose in
set party cycles.

1718.

Wearing and turned from
its purpose, just overgrown
with plodding defeat.

1717.

An exercise in
persistent futility
is this love for you.

1716.

The frequency of
your lament has tainted its
sorrow. Burdens all.

1715.

You can't stage love on
the same set as betrayal
and call the play fair.

1714.

How intimately
I understand the want to
both own and discard.

1713.

If only people
were as replaceable as
hearts try to pretend.

1712.

I have never tried
to cut you from my skin and
yet you are still scarred.

1711.

Loneliness is a
persistent disease from which
we are all dying.

1710.

Sometimes my heart seems
more of an extremity
than any limb could.

1709.

Everyone seeking
the new happiness without
noting the sheen's wear.

1708.

I would rather think
of my bones dancing and soul
drunk in life's full love.

1707.

Why must even the
idea of heaven fall to
such banal clutches?

1706.

A switch of season
with little changed but the need
to be surrendered.

1705.

Romantic notions
mean nothing when the actions
remain so hollow.

1704,

Perhaps those people
who walk into the sea just
want the tide's washing.

1703.

I remake your words
into dreams and then blame you
for those stars falling.

1702.

This heart comes as a
heavy burden stuffed full of
life's empty promise.

1701.

Behind my ribs is
a well bent on heart's drowning
in the rage within.

1700.

The idea of a
man often means more than role
or reality.

1699.

The only offer
of permanence that life holds
is that its ending.

1698.

The girl inside of
me is a stranger that I
do not want to know.

1697.

I am an island
in constant exile without
any hope's escape.

1696.

A man may make you
his religion, if only
to rob that altar.

1695.

There are a million
stories in my blood, taunting
me with their distance.

1694.

His love is a shark,
circling and hungry by the
certainty of blood.

1693.

We are a falling
house, given over to so
much tender neglect.

1692.

The emptiness of
bones as reminders of life
is found in their breaks.

1691.

All these mirrors will
never reflect the person
I see under skin.

1690.

The lure of Kaufman
is a constant overture
to amnesia's need.

1689.

I miss the warmth of
arms that understood the depths
of melancholy.

1688.

Between us we lob
these words of love and resent
like soft explosions.

1687.

My heart is an ode
built in your honor, now left
to suffocation.

1686.

Summer is this fast
thunderstorm looming its slow
pressing destruction.

1685.

We are only so
much collision, broken and
bleeding from the crash.

1684.

You are my anchor,
alternately holding and
drowning. Such union.

1683.

The hollow parts of
me seeks a sustenance that
is full of murder.

1682.

Your heart is a sieve
that always sifts and leaks those
feelings of others.

1681.

If only we could
go back to when I believed
I would be enough.

1680.

Just because I wear
that certainty on my skin
doesn't make it real.

1679.

His arms are a cage
I place myself within. An
attempt to forget.

1678.

Why do you believe
the person with just questions
will have your answers?

1677.

The progress of the
world's assimilation is
making us Stepford.

1676.

We are cannibals,
devouring the tender
insides like sweet meat.

1675.

I tend these scars so
abrasively that they will
not heal. Memory.

1674.

You are a drug that
feeds the same senses getting
numb. Heart extremes.

1673.

All these petals in
bloom seduce as a prelude
to steady murder.

1672.

We are so scared of
shadows as monsters that we
forget the ones seen.

1671.

This brain keeps jumping
the track between head and heart,
so just stays crashing.

1670.

Anxiety a
constant state in which only
loneliness resides.

1669.

My heart is lodged in
the underbelly of all
those lost emotions.

Short break.

Due to some health issues, I'll be away from updating this blog until May 15th, 2014. Just a brief update in case anyone notices the absence. Thanks.

1668.

Fervency's design
orchestrates the obvious
into the missing.

1667.

Beauty too often
hides within the arms of those
who deny its grasp.

1666.

Fatalism the
common view of the missing
motive's realist.

1665.

I will die as I
have lived. Alone and lost to
the idea of love.

1664.

Beliefs fall like stars,
burnt out and shooting. Bleeding
is all that remains.

1663.

I would much rather
stab you than love you. Fevered
motions marking need.

1662.

His faithlessness leaves
no marks but each strike still counts
as willful abuse.

1661.

They stay lined up on
his strings until he finds the
one worth breaking new.

1660.

If only you knew
how dependable your lack
of truth always shows.

1659.

A constant relapse
into hope that quickly then
turns to mouth's ashes.

1658.

With you I truly
understand the impetus
to make with murder.

1657.

Heart's Oppenheimer,
always ready to become
death, world destroyer.

1656.

The steady way you
turn your eyes to whoever
is looking hurts me.

1655.

There are parts of you
so beautiful that I ache,
but their coat is pain.

1654.

My heart feeds itself
on its own discontent. True
cannibalism.

1653.

That love represents
nothing more than your shifting,
slow impermanence.

1652.

Your mouth is a skein
that frequently twists even
the best of intents.

1651.

Everyone has some
mimic of Judas in their
bones seeking vengeance.

1650.

The trusted ones are
also those who we must guard
against most often.

1649.

Mirrors are broken
and turned back for the maiming.
Suicide by love.

1648.

Our hearts' roots are all
twisted and gnarled together
in a tied hanging.

1647.

A storm that sweeps out
everything but the mess
hiding underneath.

1646.

The idea of so
much oblivion lost to
its reality.

1645.

Hollow honors built
for the merry making of
fools and their splendor.

1644.

Loneliness is more
a need for anchors and psalms
than riding passion.

1643.

Cover me in your
hunger so that I may be
completely consumed.

1642.

Just one vision's blink
that means nothing to the view
of its reflection.

1641.

The flickering light
of damnation is more a
flash than a fire.

1640.

A depressive's dream
in motion. Emotion's dressed
up for theater.

1639.

The desultory
march from birth to death, played out
with each slow season.

1638.

Beautiful wonder
and destruction, constantly
intermixed as one.

1637.

Schizophrenia
of nature. The world's constant
serial killer.

1636.

Frost the pervading
glory for fogged mornings and
cold, breath stealing nights.

1635.

A fight for spring in
the air. Winter resolute
in its entrenchment.

1634.

The earth upends and
turns the skies' intention down
to the ground below.

1633.

A turn to spring that
mocks itself by the failure
of its sun parade.

1632.

The continual
upkeep of a heart its own
enduring struggle.

1631.

History a set
game bent on its irony.
Mirrors inverted.

1630.

A mask of luck cast
in the name of a people
with little given.

1629.

How brief is the peace
found in stolen moments of
joy, always building.

1628.

The machine of those
tiny bodies burning with
a heart's full engine.

1627.

A highlight toward
the hope of children, found in
unrelenting play.

1626.

A sudden shift in
perception. Sunlight counters
most blunt ugliness.

1625.

And the cynic falls
once again. Optimism
up for surrender.

1624.

Empty purpose that
is masked by desperation.
Pointless efforts, all.

1623.

Each day another
soft blending into the next.
We're all just dying.

1622.

A reversal of
time that masks lines for circles.
Only bleeding out.

1621.

The observations
of fortune pretending that
it could know struggle.

1620.

Illusory games
dressed up for blind charades. No
players recognized.

1619.

Sideways intentions
set to crawling as if they
were meant to be straight.

1618.

A cost of balance
that divides its own lines. Each
side always tilting.

1617.

Romanticism;
the idea that bridges gaps
between weight and light.

1616.

Reality bears
little chance for such child-
like views of splendor.

1615.

Optimism the
frequent work of hope, wishful
for a miracle.

1614.

The cynic's worldview
often holds the clearest lens
that emotion clouds.

1613.

Ignoring those who
fall under the shift toward
sociopathy.

1612.

How empty belief
seems in a world that shows its'
hearts as so blackened.

1611.

Bones were never meant
to be the firmament for
reaching such a high.

1610.

People forever
more fodder than wonder to
be held as treasure.

1609.

Naivete a
standard that simply ignores
now life's sanctity.

1608.

Spectres of a lost
history whose lessons should
still be so heeded.

1607.

If one were lent to
believe in ghosts, such armies
must still be marching.

1606.

A riveting view
of change and decimation
held up by windows.

1605.

Books and videos
wrapped in the tide of bodies
split by civil war.

1604.

The past is holding
me hostage. Stuck in a time
I will never grasp.

1603.

A wonder to the
point of truth when the world is
cast to opinion.

1602.

History's heroes
built on fiction more than fact.
Revision plenty.

1601.

Comfort supplanted
by the constant need for more.
A devouring.

1600.

Expectation the
rote of love. The modern turn,
capitalism.

1599.

A day of pretend
dressed up in shades of both hearts
and blood. Murderous.

1598.

Alleviation
sought on the cusp more feigned
revelry. Hearts now.

1597.

Days of honor built
on the backs of misconceived
history's lapses.

1596.

Such wearing is born
the realists bearing those
cynics' smug faces.

1595.

A world set to the
constant diet of hate that
the curmudgeons use.

1594.

A new turn toward
not appreciating the
things that are given.

1593.

Then, who wouldn't get
tired of constant maiming
by their own children?

1592.

Or perhaps just a
planet tired of its weight
and needing to shrug.

1591.

Moving viruses
dressed up like so much people.
Deceptive humans.

1590.

Inexorable
process of birth followed by
elimination.

1589.

Incidental parts
of the bigger plan that just
continues moving.

1588.

Only the flashes
of life blinking in and out
of existence here.

1587.

A world in which so
very little changes from
one day to the next.

1586.

Cynicism keeps
the ground fertile in the view
of weary living.

1585.

Each side seeking some
solace to build a new nest
of lies to tide on.

1584.

Intentions are all
inverted on this playing
field of empty hearts.

1583.

A desultory
foundation for emotions
absented splendor.

1582.

Weary souls turned out
for the parade of pretend.
Blank eyes and smiles.

1581.

Psalms are cast out in
empty efforts of comfort.
We are all just lost.

1580.

The song of the love-
lorn and depressed. A dirge for
those romance long damned.

1579.

Hearts flounder and drown
under these dull conditions.
All roads set to end.

1578.

The breeding ground of
loneliness, spreading nothing
but slow, dying hope.

1577.

The sorrow of a
world left to dyslexia
in matters of love.

1576.

A desire for
lessons in vein's morse code, set
to heartbeat's telling.

1575.

I wish you could feel
the braille of this skin so the
need would be sated.

1574.

Hollows persist where
dreams go unfollowed. Empty
skies and souls remain.

1573.

If only we could
learn how to read our own minds
to discern meaning.

1572.

A denial of
heart always ending in its
own slow destruction.

1571.

Underneath the tides
of hatred lay such fragile,
small children in need.

1570.

A disconsolate
surrender. Perception and
its ills, just breeding.

1569.

A confusion of
senses. Vision taking up
the space feeling needs.

1568.

Our faces are just
a representation of
science, not our worth.

1567.

As if ugliness
were anything but a view
toward each one's heart.

1566.

Isolating some
difference for intended
shaming. Irony.

1565.

We are so obsessed
in debasing others, we
forget our frailties.

1564.

Perhaps the want in
our eyes is best served by these
distances. Saving.

1563.

My emotions too
awkward a confession to
make. Quiet persists.

1562.

Too often comfort
is given through platitudes.
Erasing meaning.

1561.

Trapped by hidden rules
dictating an unfulfilled
existence. Pointless.

1560.

Life full of silence
and all that never gets said.
Imbalanced longing.

1559.

Darkness is the true
equalizer of fragile
emotions set scared.

1558.

I resent far more
relationships than I will
ever just enjoy.

1557.

A cynic's new year.
Treading the fine line between
the real and believed.

1556.

Just more time passing
in the slow march to death that
we deem as living.

1555.

And then nothing gets
changed. Resolutions waiting
for the coming fall.