I don't like to fake it
why fake it and take from my totality,
my shot at being whole.

I never feel as pure as I do in the climax
cuz when I get there, I am perfect
free of thought
free of reason

i become a being made of instinct and nerve endings
and the desire to give it to you fully

passion

when I am both slave and master
conquering and succumbing

happy because as much as I'm taking
I'm giving it back

cuz loving is one of the few things I can do with all my heart
without side notes and unhappy endings

and at its final round, when I am certain,
I reach peace because I've become immaculate

14 Feb 2011

I. you look right at me as you speak
and say it'll be okay, and don't
cast the shadows in the bleak
bleak corners erected by my twisted architect

II. the sounds are simple and unique
the syllables smooth soft and soothing
smooth, soft, soothing
maybe it's your voice
maybe it's your touch
maybe it's the combination
of decibels and

III. all I know is that when it's too much,
and the world's too rough
you can rush in
pull the lush in
make it sweet
make it sugar

IV. cuz I get so bitter

Berlin

I would love you through anger
and struggles
I would love you through fences
where fingers and mouths
touch through metal links
I would love you through disaster
I would love you through the Berlin Wall,
cold and stoic and concrete
I would pass the days by
tagging it up with mops of my love’s conceit
cuz this wall stresses you
and it stresses me but not us—
thus
incomplete
and in the capital of recklessness
is our physical graffiti
permanent and unmistaken
blood marks where the toll is taken
curved and spacious wounds
where the soul was shaken
up into the shared sky,
clouds we could call our own
shapes
from a world that seemed
so much more
like home

Berlin

I would love you through anger
and struggles
I would love you through fences
where fingers and mouths
touch through metal links
I would love you through disaster
I would love you through the Berlin Wall,
cold and stoic and concrete
I would pass the days by
tagging it up with mops of my love’s conceit
cuz this wall stresses you
and it stresses me but not us—
thus
incomplete
and in the capital of recklessness
is our physical graffiti
permanent and unmistaken
blood marks where the toll is taken
curved and spacious wounds
where the soul was shaken
up into the shared sky,
clouds we could call our own
shapes
from a world that seemed
so much more
like home