When I write I think of clouds

of Sun that shined on days gone. 

Behind a window is where I would stand

thinking of the people that I've forgotten.

When I write I try not to think of you,

the nightmare that holds me tight,

no clouds to cover my head,

and black rainbows are friendly.

When I write, my heart is more a kidney,

it is proper, it sits upright,

it smokes and clogs the toilet, 

it is easy to believe it's an adventure.

When I write I think of me

I don't want to, it just happens.

I want my pen to tell me what to do.

Why to do, how to tell, what I didn't do.

When I write distances are arbitrary,

you will read my words,

though the sound will be generic.

You are a diamond who is best left 

to rot in the earth, time will push to perfection.

You are what makes me cringe 

I can't explain it, butterflies are ugly

butterflies are deadly.

I'd ask the lord to move the sea

but no miracles ever happened,

only tales told that make people happy

with having no meaning, no purpose 

besides the superiority from being human.

Will time erode this feeling or will I be left

screaming because of what I can't have

what I can't throw away, what I can't glimpse.

Maybe a meaning would only destroy this feeling.

Maybe the beginning is best thought of as the end.