We are under a tornado warning.
As I look outside my window,
it appears we have reached the calm before the storm.

The ghosts are occupying the sky,
yelling and firing their guns.
Tears falling upon the heads of the breathing.

I only want to see the sun.
I frantically claw toward the sky.
But I am showered by a million little specks
of a war only Mother Nature understands.

I could dance.
Swing my body under a luminescent streetlight.
Feel my shoes and socks become more and more heavy.
Until my toes are unable to move.

Or maybe I should be more cautious, more vigilant.
maybe I should protect myself from
"life-threatening" danger.
But maybe I deserve it.
Maybe this is the perfect storm for me.
Maybe I shouldn't act like I am comfortable at all.

No more acting.
We have reached the calm before the storm.
Now I'm ready for my curtain call.

How dare I
get my hopes up and
think you would ever come around
and realize that maybe,
just maybe,
this olive branch would blossom?

Never listen to speculations.
Never trust the messenger.

Always **** the messenger.

He took a snapshot of me in the rain
in front of the vacant house where
ghost lifted the dust and
suspended the rocks like a puppeteer.

He called the shot
A Thousand Different Versions of Your Soul
and he swore, if it takes a community to raise a child,
then a thousand different people ******* me up.

I walked back to my house under an umbrella
with the polaroid of my incertitude tucked close to my heart
I pulled down every Vonnegut book from the shelf,
took the Holy Bible from its case,
called Plath up from her grave,
and asked them what the hell my life meant, anyway.

Vonnegut told me to travel to Titan.
There I will fall in love with the beautiful Sirens
and die with the aliens of Tralfamadore.

The Holy Bible told me to carry His cross
to Golgotha,
so He could die for
the salvation from my sins.

Plath told me to keep on writing.
Then I will live until I'm thirty,
and die in with my head in
my kitchen oven.

All provided valid arguments
on why my heart keeps beating
and why the thousand different versions of my soul
haven't crawled out of my throat yet.

We make a mess of beautiful things.
We scatter them across our floor like snow.
We lay in beds of pictural dreams
that nobody else but us know.

Moments upon moments of color ring
around our heads as we grow and grow
with grace upon grace held in our hands
like God himself is fighting for our side.

It's funny, I awoke from this dream with such open eyes
and to my surprise it were your eyes that cried.
If anything, it was I who deserved those tears.
We make a mess of beautiful things...

For a
moment

I thought I (love)d you.

It's a tough word, it really is,
when you're sobbing behind a bottle,
bleeding red wine from the corners of your mouth.
It would be simpler to express this sober,
but you know as well as anyone
no one's ever sober anymore.

The inebriates are saying "happy ******* Valentine's Day"
to everyone who decided to break the glass the past year.
The antidepressants are speeding up my heart beat,
praying that this time it'll be my name you're crying about.

Even if it's for the wrong reason.

I listen to the pulse of my beating heart.
It's a feeling I might never forget.
Hell, I use it as an alarm clock.
I wake up and tie my shoes at night.
And when I walk down the city blocks,
I use it as a warning call.

The dim street lights can be deceiving.

"You want light? I'll flicker and cut out
to make your night adventure a bit more eerie".

It's as if someone is floating above me,
lighting a cigarette with a dying lighter,
and once the flame is gone
I am dark. No shadow to follow me anymore.

It's hard to walk alone with a kickdrum heart.

He knows where he is at.
His while t-shirt clings to his sweat soaked skin
and he waits for another chance to waste his breath
on the walking skeletons.

He walks outside with a hole in his umbrella
to wash away the salt from his arms
but to protect his face from the water
to make sure the walking skeletons know he was crying earlier.

When the sky falls,
he will catch the pieces in his mouth
like he did during winter.
He will recite his opinions on why he should die
in front of the walking skeletons,
while he slowly loses his skin himself.