For every moment you provide an album
some of which have caressed
my ears many times
others are hidden gems
unknown until they are discovered
fresh and knew amongst well loved classics.

IPOD when I put you on shuffle
you become the worlds best
radio station, commercial free
and tailored to my exact range
of musical taste.

IPOD you are my bedtime companion
my entertainer forcing me to smile
in the midst of my blackest moods
when all feels as if it is in ruins
you provide the perfect accompaniment
to my wallowing or sometimes
they lift me to a place where the music is so good
only the soulless could wallow there.

IPOD in a world with you
the world can only ever get me so down.

This flower didn’t smell like
the crisp too clean scent
of a florists freezer
it took over the whole room
made it full with the smell of lilies.

Whenever I walked by that room
I would come in and
stroke its stiff petals
Be taken in by how it was
exactly my favorite shade of pink
a velvety warm tone.

I would look out the window
and picture a bouquet
of them in my hands
on our wedding day.

Cold seeps below
skin, muscle, and sinew
deep into the marrow
of bones.
fingers freeze
around the sharp edges
of sorrows
shaped like shuriken.

Slicing through the air
I fling them at you
until your shredded
like the rest
frayed beyond a semblance
of who you used to be.

Hold your breath
inside your tattered lungs
while you wait
for the sun
to come back from its rest
and set things back to
lush green rights.

I’ve heard before
in scenes half faded
from memory.
the murmurs of truths
I used to know
in the days when I felt
like a finished work.

Now I take a seam-ripper
to my fresh stitches
as I attempt to recall those
millions of moments
when I no longer needed them.
When I was held together not
by such temporary means.

Delicate spun glass figurines
that are inevitably smashed
by those that carelessly handle them
and feel no remorse
when they hold the shards
of what used to be in their hands
they simply get back in line
to purchase another
with the rest of the schmucks.

I eat a steady diet of false smiles
the things that get you
through awkward conversations
with people you kind of know.

Build your life like a temple
to all the things you wish you were
homage to heroes
too postmodern even for you.

But you wish
you were the kind of person
who could.

I may be cold
But Ill survive the chill of loneliness.

As good as dead

he’s already half rotted.

A half person walking around in daylight.

The light reflected off his shell

blinded us.

But the camera,

it captured his true image.

More so then the pale exposed skin.

Now he is the one who cries for mercy

when he never gave it to her

as unforgiving as a glass eyed camera.

I’m not the jury and judge

or he’d already be swinging by a tree branch.