my heartaches are self-inflicted.

i choose to get involved in bad situations,

no-good situations, that can only end one way -

with a heart that hurts,

a heart crying for pain relievers.

but it happens with such frequency

so i can't blame anyone but me.

i put myself out there

i act forward

i'm an accessory in the cause of my pain.

but i do it for a reason:

the pain lets me know i'm real

lets me appreciate the days my heart smiles

without the heartache,

i'd be dumb -

there is no enlightenment when all you feel

all the time

is good.

eventually that "good" feels like nothing

because that's all it really is -

a hollow emotion

substance-less because it has no foundation - 

no memories of heart burn to give meaning to good.

my heartaches are self-inflicted

because it helps define my heartsmiles

and reinforces the fact that i'm alive

with a heart strong enough

to handle one more hurt

one more ache

one more burn.

have you ever wondered how many versions a story has?

all those people,

all those points of view...

conflicting,

incomplete,

searching.

whose story is real?

whose is missing the integral piece?

what is the integral piece?

whose version of the story allocated that title,

and why was it taken at face value?

all those people,

all those points of view...

there is no face value,

nothing to be taken for granted.

when someone publishes their story,

it's automatically taken as the popular version.

any dispute is just that -

disputing the facts.

one voice over another.

have you ever wondered how many versions a story has?

you won't need to -

it doesn't matter -

not everyone cares enough to speak out.

"Your heart is my pinata"

my heart is your smorgasbord

fill up

then leave.

ravage the serving platters

and drink up

'til you're sick.

get your money's worth

before moving on

to the next establishment,

the next heart,

maybe that one will be another

all-you-can-stuff-in-your-face

or maybe it wont.

that's the chance you take

when you leave.

my love is a monsoon,

only seemingly endless.

it comes in waves, in droves,

on schedule.

in some countries, it's marked on the calendar,

built into the year,

you can swear by its entrance

and eventual exit.

my love is a monsoon,

it comes and goes like the seasons.

when it's around, it's stronger than a stampede of horses.

and when it's gone, 

you don't miss it.

my love is a monsoon

it effects, hits, touches, falls on, kisses everyone

within a certain radius.

stories are told of its damages

to farther off, arid lands.

yes, it can rain that much.

yes, it can fall for days on end.

yes, it changes our life without fail.

my love is a monsoon.

we began in the summer,

seemingly suited for one another

when days where long

and nights warm.

but then the suns tarted to shine less

and it got colder.

we got colder

towards each other.

we were curt

and seemingly started to care less

about responding.

in the depth of winter,

we were silent,

like the sound of the absence of birds.

it's spring now

and i hear chirping daily

but still not from you

and i know you experience the same

and that's how it will stay.

we began last summer

and that's how far it went.

NYC

change of pace

change of location

scenery

buildings that kiss the sky

towering over jealous trees

that go for miles

in the city's heart

history

hidden behind old world facades

along its moldings

smothered in the walls

i need a change

a place where people walk

because it's quicker

and not the other way around.

i could leave now

an adventure awaits

i have no direction in life

and i've never felt better

but still i sit in one place

like a good child

hiding behind the facade of purpose

in a place where trees outreach the buildings

and the closest they get to kissing the sky

is their leaves holding baited breath

lips puckered

for contact that will never materialize

scenery

change of location

change of pace

life is like a polaroid...

snap up the good times

then shake it out