Channelling my Inner Walt Whitman.

I.

That poor bastard, 

who they buried in navy blue. 

The one with brown eyes,

So full of shit that any one

could see straight through. 

He lived his life on lies, 

he chased away each opportunity to be loved,

all of this a sacrifice, 

for one step closer 

to whatever hung above. 

On past the moon, 

and beyond its orbit 'round the sun,

on into the milky way, 

where his spirit could roam, 

his soul could run.

In the end, 

who knows if it paid off? 

Save that poor bastard 

Buried in blue. 

II.

His intentions weren’t always straight, 

but his heart was always true. 

He wanted to paint pictures, 

Plant sunflowers, 

pull up a park bench on the moon. 

Hit the breeze, 

enjoy the view. 

Had it not been for all those thrills 

he chased past the horizon into the mornings, 

beginnings never new. 

Few claimed him brilliant, 

but those with two eyes knew him a fool. 

A dog who chased his tail 

from birth his whole life through. 

A Sinatra Song, I've Long Forgotten the Words For.

A Sinatra Song, I've Long Forgotten the Words For.
-E.

He wasn’t all bad. 

He wanted more at one point. 

It was the pressure which drove him insane. 

It wasn’t until after the fact he realized

That he had fallen victim to his own shortcomings. 

Heaven holds hope for a romantic, 

the idea of fate, maybe one day he might find. 

He wanted not to be a broken heart. 

An unkind word. 

He wanted to stand beneath her windowsill,

tossing peppermints at the glass. 

Instead he ran in fear. 

Drove a wedge deep enough that no trench could be dug. 

He will find peace. Eventually. 

Only for now he sings his blues in silence, 

knowing that which he loved, 

Driven away only by misunderstanding, 

And jealousy of another. 

He wished not for his sense of sound,

to hear the lies outsiders spun. 

He wished not for a sense of smell, 

to whiff the bullshit which he left spewed. 

He wished only for sight to witness that eclipse one last time. 

Even if the taste of the air surrounding would be the last he ever drew. 

He claims that he is sorry, but that’s not always enough. 

He yearns for maturity, and seeks it with just intent. 

Even if he were to die alone, 

he would have only himself to blame. 

Not that he would mind, 

after all, he was the one who pretended to be blind.