5,110 Goodnights

The sky is calm,
and I am safe.
The clouds and I,
we don't get along,
for when I leave
my parents' home -
they run.

My mother asks me
where time when:
"I have I lost sight of it all?"
she wonders.
She tells me of days
I cannot remember,
ones that she will not forget,
stories that, when I
look to her eyes,
make her soul sparkle.

Mom often reminds me
I'm growing up too fast.
"I wish you'd stop,"
she says.
All I can do is
nod my head
in unison -
for I, too, agree.

When I come home from school,
Mom is in the living room.
"How was school, Sweety?"
she asks.
Every day I reply with
the same eight letter word:
"Terrible."
Every day she asks why -
though she knows my answer -
so I tell her I'm just tired.

After hard nights of studying,
with Mom curled
on the couch,
I ask if she wants to hear a poem.
At time I fear she'll ask me not to -
"I already know what love is,"
she'd state -
but she never does.

Grabbing my notebook,
with torn up papers
and loose-leaf shreds,
I begin.
Unlike the voice in my head,
I sound dry,
boring,
distraught,
and I fear she'll ask me to stop -
but she never does.

Finally I finish reading, and I
calmly look to my mother
with soft eyes
to see her as she drifts off to sleep -
a place she has not visited in a while -
one almost forgetten.
Subtly, I kiss her forehead goodnight.

Finding a blanket,
one spotted red and white
with wagons and doves,
I throw it over her,
and make sure
evert thread is tucked in
from the tips of her toes
to the ends of her shoulders.

Quietly, I tell her I love her,
with the hope she'd wake up
to silently reply,
"I love you too Sweety" -
and she always does.

Chief of Angels

Written by moi and Devon Richards

Part I: (Me)

Who has the power to
withdraw him,
To dissolve his being,
and cast him as
The Prisoner of Memories?
His weeps,
his cries,
they Echo.
With his soul steaming,
he begins to ask himself:
what next?

Part II: (Devon)

He sobs because he is alone.
Harsh memories flood his brain like
high tide along the shore.
He cries because he is afraid.
Can't you hear his moans?
Won't you give this
solitary soul
company
on this Godforsaken
Beach of Memories?

Part III: (Me)

They named him Michael for a reason.
Not all empowered can hold back tears.
He possessed the internal knowledge
that no mortal
could ever suffice:
His heart was the sun.
He laid back,
and waiting with easy eyes,
I watched him drift off to sleep.

Part IV: (Devon)

His soul fluttered restlessly
for fear of dreams that offer no escapes.
He thrashes out
and his heart throbs.
He knows things that are not meant to be known.
His mind withheld all the secrets
he desired to put to rest.
His past mistakes were all that he could see:
There was no moving forward;
No going back.

The Sorcerer of Tranquility

Fifteen years,
fifteen
long,
dragging years
It took,
and is still taking
to appreciate,
to understand
Only a fragment of this seductive and
opaque feeling.
**To What sentimental value 
Do we obtain,
do we aspire
From searching for these treasures
that not even the most 
brilliant lovers
could find.
With diamonds dabbed
upon the ocean of our canvas,
You sit along, gazing,
searching,
wishing to find
The Heaven
of the world
we named
The Night Sky.
Yet you cannot comprehend the feeling.
When I sit alone,
I realize
I am not rused -
But I want what I cannot have:
this feeling the one we all long to know.
I want to capture it,
Seal it tight in a jar,
and inhale its magic.
I want it to race to my toes,
and tingle every section
of everything bone
Surrounding my spine.
Soon enough,
I start to believe:
Believe that it is possible
that this feeling is out there -
Lost,
Looking for an owner
so courageous,
who is and posseses such empowering love.
Here, I am able to open that jar,
taste that feeling,
and indulge in that
sweet Serenity.

**Has yet to be edited!

6 Feet Deep

When I die,
I want to be layed to rest in a casket.
I want to be burried deep
underground
so,
that the largest earthquake
would not shatter my bones:
where nothing could touch me.
I don't want to be burried to rot,
to be in so far that
I will decay.
I do not want worms to
infect my lifeless being.
I want to be drifted off,
into another world,
a new dimension,
where my hair
and my toenails will continue
to grow;
where I become revived,
where I become new again.

Purple-Faced Charlie

Have you taken a breath?
Lungs exposed to oxygen?
Your body's swollen.

Drifiting Away

When you're alone,
you begin to to realize yourself
on a whole different level.
You find out that you
are not who you think
is actually real.

You find things you never knew,
despite all the memories
pinned to your heart.
All the years you have
lived for, do not even
matter any more,
because honestly,
what does?

After a while your thoughts fade into
dreams and nobody knows what has
happened to you
and all those crazy thoughts,
scattered in that ol'
noggin of yours begin to bring sadness.

But we do know that you
keep believing they are real and
a whole new world comes into view
and it appears like everything
you've ever loved,
hoped,
kissed,
and known,
are diminishing right before your eyes.

Until then, just in that moment,
your mind takes you in,
sweeps you away,
and you're gone forever.

And then, just sitting there in your
own solemnity,
you question your being and your mind,
your heart and soul, and you ask yourself,
What comes next?

The pit of your stomach,
yes,
that's where your soul lies.
It's burried so deep,
no one can reach it,
except you.
You can control what goes on
behind closed doors,
and it the dark - yet,
You don't.
Why?
That spot in your stomach,
the very part that seeks
oxygen and sugar and blood,
it feeds off your every move.
It knows what you will do,
even before
it happens.
You're too easy.
Can you feel remorse as
it devours your love?
Can you feel hate as
it knaws at your innocence?
Living is death,
so why aren't you dead?