I am November eleventh.
Muted. Grey. Orange and red.
Chaos reckoning the silence.
I’m just some kind of disaster.
Not waiting to happen,
But currently happening.
Traces of my manic heart
Are left in skin and bones.
I am not optimistic, goodness,
Nor an easy conversationalist.
Reserved, overwhelmed, emotional.
I’m not what they call desirable,
I have too many faults.
I use to call it passion.

Why is your brokenness so beautiful,
So enticing, alluring, inviting?
Why do I only want to fix you,
To tell you to keep on fighting?
How unfortunate, how desolate,
That my love holds no cure;
For you are the “beginning of terror,
Which we are still just able to endure”.

She’s fascinating. She’s been through things.
I was in love with her. She inspired me.
(I know this will read how you want it to read)
She is authentic, like the honey bees;
Doing what they do because it’s just the thing.
And she would always sing
Something about kissing and missing and being Free.
While drinking wine from a paper cup
Underneath The willow tree.

You are something like
Marionberries from the tree
In the back ally.
Something like black birds
Leaving black seeds
On the black streets.
The epitome of February;
Cold and always longing.

All people are as sunflowers;
Heads held down in shame.
Always chasing after light
But in our spaces still remain.

She's the last glimpse of home
When you're moving away.
She's the first breeze of autumn
and makes your perspective change.
The only Butterfly of Spring
You really want to take,
And it's brilliant to watch
As she slowly decays.

I had some kind of words to say,
But now I’m merely flowers by the freeway
Grown on fumes and grit and tar
Watching life move by, while I’m
Forever standing still.