The Power of Estrangement

Such is the personification of my solitude
Whereupon my joy is restored by the winds of laughter
Just as my companionship is assured by the starry pillows of night
Even so, I am still subject to the implacable deceit of hope
that such was my heart seduced beyond the realm of its conviction.
May these matters now be matters of most, matter not
yet I never knew the meaning of loneliness
Until there was you

© Charles Coakley Simpson 201

La petite mort

As her skin tastes like wine
having pressed the fruits of her passion.
brushing lips softly along the flute of her throat,
caressing the small of her back tenderly
so as to feel her breasts ripening beneath my weight.
She yields to the firmness of my resolve,
and gathering me into the garden of her lilies
embraces my eminence with
Death

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Acceptance

Come despair, my old friend
and wrap me within your arms again.
Encompass this sorrow of which I am beset
with gentle console of hopeless regret.
Might it have been better to jump than to fall
or is better to have loved and lost
than never to have lost at all.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Babybird

Won’t you hold me within the wing of prayer
that the comfort of love wll find me there
and strengthen my heart while it you enfold
with the warm embrace of your feathered soul.

For there I am found safe against your breast
encouraged thus, my dreams are possessed
so nurtured by hope and visions of height
you grantsed me wings of which to take flight.

With newfound poise I stand before my fate
wings heartened with your faith I elevate
when I step from the refuge of your bough
that I soar higher than I thought I knew how.

Embolden by love I climb higher and higher
up toward heaven, that of which I aspire
with your love given, I am well recieved
for the love that you gave, made me comlete.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Tender hooks

Tender are the hooks of what might have been

thus with fond despair I do regale in them
Splendor of sadness and lighthearted regret
are the sustenance of hearts thus beset
Might the trappings of hope been false with allure
I grieve them with grace that I may endure
Thus I pray fair the imminence of death
shall spare you the pain of my dying breath
and think of me, as I thought of you when
Tender were the hooks which might have been.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Regret

When it is I sit in darkness
I see a thousand lights shining in the distance
And yet I know they are not of heaven
But all the things I have left
Undone

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Mermaid

Dropping her blouse at the water’s edge
she dives silently beneath its cool and placid embrace.
In the distance, I hear the sound of a car crossing an unkempt wooden bridge
as she climbs sinuously onto the floating dock and calls to me softly–
“Come on,” she pleads. “It will be dark soon. They will be wondering where we are.”
The pungent scent of summer blossoms passionately in the alfalfa
as the waters of my unrestrained indulgence glisten off her sun-kissed skin.
and I wonder how heavy the heart of a sinking sun is
as I wade into the uncharted waters of
Desire.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The beauty of agony

As your eyes are filled with anticipation -
That you are a fawn caught in the light of your own desire
They flutter like butterflies, and your lips tremble
Red and full, like plums of passion being shaken from their tree
r inhibitions plucked, falling breathlessly
From the height of intimacy’s
-Touch.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Constancy

May I instill within you–a longing.
A delicate imminence surrounded by the whole of your heart
An insecurity of intimacy, craving for companionship
Would you embrace it as warmly
With thoughts of me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Solace

As when I think upon you
That I long for the warmth of your shadow
Where I might close my eyes and cross this river of sleep.
For I seek not an occasion of flesh or a fleeting moment of adore
only the knowledge of when holding you
- I cannot feel the pain.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Distance

Such were the miles between our years
That we believed in forever
And yet forever was simply too good to be
True.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Babysitter

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass, and the lawn clippings stick stubbornly to bottoms of his bare feet as he jumps through the sprinkler. Leaving a trail of tiny-wet footprints, he hurries across the hot pavement and sits down beside her on the porch. She tries to ignore him as he looks up at her inquisitively. Sandy-brown hair in a loose bouffant, glasses perched at the end of her nose, she is absorbed in a teen-romance novel and The Mamas and Papas playing on her AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Flicking her cigarette to the side, she acknowledges his presence out of the corner of her eye. His dark-almond eyes sparkle with attention and looking up at her asks. “When are we going to the pool?”

He bats his eyes playfully. “You are so bad, you know that?” He grins up at her innocently and she laughs. “Okay, let me change and I will take you to the pool.” YAY! “God forbid–you might melt.” She teases, and closing her book, digs the car keys out of her purse and tosses them to him. “Go listen to the radio, I’ll be right back,” Keys? “And don’t start the car this time.” Who me? She gives him a fresh look like she might mean it this time. “And I mean it this time!” She emphasizes before the door closes behind her. This time. He palms the car keys in his hand for a moment, then jumping up off the porch, he bounds out to the 65 Ford Galaxie and climbs anxiously into the front seat.

He slips the keys into the ignition–welcome to the KLEO top 40 countdown and we begin today’s slide with Iron Butterfly In a gadda da vida–and scrolls through the stations. Sliding behind the wheel, he attempts to touch the pedals with his toes. He races the engine, va-room, va-room, signaling her that he has arrived. She comes running out the house, her hair still in a loose bouffant, but she has changed blouses and slipped into a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and leather sandals. Hopping into the car beside him, she gives him a quick kiss and sitting back in the seat, shakes a cigarette out of a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “Let’s go,” she exhales. “If my parents see me with you again they will ground me for a month.”

Spinning the tires, he whips the car out of the driveway and thunders down to the end of the block, careening around the corner. He pulls up to the stop sign at Main Street, the fire-breathing 427 rumbling beneath the hood, and looks to her for approval. Exchanging smiles, he coolly turns out onto the main drag. The midsummer’s night is alive with the electricity of teenagers cruising, their radios blaring, shining black chrome glistening in the night. Laying her head out the window, she lets the wind undo her hair and the car is filled with the scent of hairspray. Her features caressed delicately by the passing streetlights, he can’t help but notice the shadows moving beneath the veil of her blouse.

“What are you looking at?” She purrs playfully, and sliding effortlessly across the seat to his side, nuzzles naughtily into the nape of his neck. He can feel the warmth of her thigh pressing against his and the heat of anticipation builds between them as she stokes the fire. Her untamed hair hiding the intent in her eyes, she moves her hand silkily up the inside of his pants leg. “I bet I know what you want,” she whispers warmly. Their eyes meet automatically as the magnitude of her intentions are revealed beneath the dashboard lights. Every fiber of his being is filled with throbbing expectation, and yet as she envelops his eager imagination with something wet and wonderful, his fantasy explodes prematurely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She snaps at him through the window. “I told you–not to start the car!” She jerks at the door handle and he moves quickly to the other side of the vehicle as she slides in behind the steering wheel. He can’t help but notice the shapely black bikini visible beneath her white blouse. “And just what do you think you’re looking at?” She smiles at him knowingly. He tries to escape the question but there is no place to run, and then it suddenly occurs to him that there are no secrets between them. He smiles back cleverly and she laughs out loud. “You are so bad, you know that?” Shaking her head to herself, she slips the car into reverse and after backing out of the drive, turns towards Main Street.

Summer smells like fresh-cut grass and the sound of The Mamas and Papas playing on the AM radio. Monday Monday, so good to me. Summer is the repetitive echo of tires on a brick-paved avenue as they drive down Main Street. Monday Monday, it was all I hoped it would be. Driving downtown, summer is the elderly-black man sitting patiently on the step of his shoeshine stand as the townsfolk move in and out of the drugstore exchanging gossip. Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be. Summer is the whisper of cottonwoods as they pull into the park, and the laughter of children splashing in the pool. Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave and not take me.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 201

The Incubus

The Victorian house towers before her as she comes up the ornate pebble walk, its shadow crossing the street in the setting sun. She had spent weeks scouring real estate brochures for the perfect home in the perfect neighborhood, searching for something comfortable and reflective of her refined tastes. She had almost relinquished herself to spending another winter in the city, when one summer evening, she discovered the home tucked away in a prestigious neighborhood of a small community just outside the edge of town. Not surprisingly, he seller was asking too much. However, there was no price she wouldn’t pay for her solitude and thus began moving into the distinguished residence in the fall.

The home was certainly more than she required, having only needed to furnish a small penthouse in the city. However, she had been buying and storing antiques in hopes that one day she would find a suitable house to situate them. In view of that, she was there to supervise the move. Standing watch at the garden’s edge, she bit her lip anxiously as the moving van backed into the length of the cobblestone drive. Admiring the antiquity of the furnishings as they were being unloaded, she cautioned the workers against a painful death should anything be damaged. All the same, they were quite mindful of the value of each piece and bore them respectfully to its rightful room without question.

She had also acquired several Persian rugs for the house. A large golden Tabriz was placed in the Great Room, its earthen tones contrasting beautifully with the rich wood of the Louis XV furniture nicely as well as bringing out the blondes of their upholstery. Comparatively, she had several runners for the hallways, two elegantly colored Hamadans and a vibrant Heriz for the foyer. The dining room played host to a subtly patterned Turkomon and a long-leafed table with high-backed chairs. A golden-flowered Kashan went to the bedroom, its rich reds and deep blues supporting a Queen Anne cherry-wood vanity and similarly fashioned four-poster bed with canopy. A woman can never be too comfortable, she maintained.

She spent the better part of that weekend having the movers arrange everything. The Louis XVI mirrored armoire was, of course, placed in the bedroom, while the Chippendale china hutch, with its two beveled-glass doors, fit perfectly at the end of the dining room. She finished the move by setting the George II clock, its long walnut case and gold face intricately detailed, at the bottom of the stairs. If I put it here, the chimes will be heard throughout the house, she smiled expectantly as she watched the steady swing of its pendulum. At last the move was complete; however, she had another week in the city tying up loose ends before she could spend the night. I'll be back soon, she pledges intimately and locks the door behind her.

As promised, she has returned to find herself admiring the cornice work of her new home as she climbs the front steps, the soffits festooned with arcs of wooden lace. On the side of the porch the formal dining room is on display, bedecked by her gabled bedroom. A balcony and black-iron rail transverse the porch roof to a sitting room in the two-story bay, its narrow windows symmetrically stacked as its segmented roof spirals into the dusk. A stone chimney projects high above the tile cap of the main ridge, its flue exhaling heat into the cool evening air while the entire structure is flanked by two soaring white oaks with whispering leaves. She is openly pleased with her purchase, and retires momentarily in the porch’s swing.

It’s good to be home, she admits. I have the entire weekend ahead of me. Suddenly, it occurs to her that he hasn’t called on her all week; she had been so busy getting settled into her new home that she hadn’t even noticed. Instinctively, she looks at her watch as if expecting him to arrive at any moment. I wonder why he hasn’t called, she asks herself, last weekend had been positively splendid–dinner, theatre, dancing the night away under the stars–or was it the weekend before? She ponders, and tries to retrace the memory. Oh bother, she concedes. I don’t have time for this; he will call–they always call. All she really wants to do right now was sink into a hot bath with a good book and a warm memory.

Hearing laughter; she notices children across the street. Instead of dwelling on her latest suitor’s apparent discount, she abandons herself to the harmony of the neighborhood. The fact that the brood are scattering the fallen leaves quicker than their father can rake them amuses her. She remembers how she used to torment her father in the same way when she was a little girl. More Daddy, make another pile, please– I’m trying, sweetheart, I’m trying. The portrait of a woman on the porch holding a baby mysteriously appears over the man’s shoulder. Feeling incomprehensibly incomplete, her heart sinks. Damn it Daddy, why hasn’t he called, she lashes out in her mind. Consequently, she shifts her attention.

A barn owl calls out in the distance, its lonesome cry reverberating hauntingly through the limbs of the neighborhood trees. She intuitively tilts her head in its direction and yet before she can attune herself to beauty of its lament, another returns the call from a different direction. Subsequently, a similar owl perched across the street cocks its head inquisitively at the family below and answers somberly as well. However, the gentle graveness within the owl’s evening communiqué stirs a melancholy within her. She cannot help but think that her attentions, no matter how reserved or misplaced, have been disregarded. The fool is patronizing me, she deduces unforgivingly. Well then–we shall see to that.

Decidedly, she gathers her self-esteem and sashays seductively out to the garden alongside the approach. The purpose within her stride reveals the shapeliness of her legs as her dress flows fluidly back over her advancing figure. Thus, endeavoring to drop a hint, she picks up her skirt and kneels down at the garden’s edge and starts to put together a spray of flowers for the foyer. The veil of the dress stretches enlighteningly across her thighs as her proposal hovers invitingly over the ground. Looking innocently over her shoulder, she is pleased to see that she has caught her neighbor’s undivided attention as he stands smitten in his yard, offspring perpetually tugging at his pant leg.

Bouquet in hand, she stands with her back still to her voyeur. Pulling the folds of her skirt back over her thighs, she plucks the cleft delicately from her peach. Subsequently, she spins on one heel glides back to the porch in long-slow-deliberate steps. She smiles mischievously as she feels her neighbor’s stare on her back and giggles naughtily when a door slams impulsively behind her. She glows accordingly and acknowledges the building warmth of her own desire. Yes, we shall see to that as well. She casts one last tempting glance at her admirer, and climbing the porch playfully, enters her new residence with a measure of accomplishment and renewed sense of sexual expectation. He will call–they always call.

To be continued.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2002 - 2010

The Bridge

I saw her standing alone on the bridge, shivering within the cold embrace of the autumn rain. A portrait of solitude, I fell to studying the lines of her loneliness. Her hair was wet and disheveled by the grieving skies, and the contrast of darkened eyes set deep in alabaster skin reflected the melancholy of the day. Thus she was weeping; her tears falling silently into the running waters below. Perhaps she was in hopes they would sweep her sadness out to sea, and yet as her tears mingled with the rushing current, I could not tell her anguish from the rain. Thus, I was moved by the ambiguity of her emotion, and set out to soothe the sorrow which seemingly tore at her heart.

As I slid my hand up the stone rail, I noticed the sharp radius of the bridge’s arc. Its spirit dampened by the rain as well, the smoothness of its paving stones appeared slippery. Regardless, I gathered a foothold on fate and started up the incline; seemingly, she was still unaware of my presence. Thus, with each careful step I felt the humility of labor in every stone. I admired the bridge’s design, an exquisite example of architecture hidden back in these prideful woods. It was seemed fitting that something so beautiful would traverse something so serene. Suddenly, I stopped; she was looking over her shoulder, and yet quickly turning away, curiously–pretended I wasn’t there.

Taking a deep breath, I carried on unassumingly, and yet with every step I felt my heart pound with concern. Perhaps she might jump–I could not imagine. Trying to put myself at ease, I continued to study the design of the bridge. The foundations on either side of the river appeared visibly sound, as if age had only strengthened them, and at the foot of each stood a single streetlamp, which glowed even in the gloom of the day. As I reached the apex of the bridge, I could feel the rush of the waters beneath me. Still, I felt secure enough upon its suspension to approach the poor woman and attempt to mend her despair. Sadly, I was met with considerable contempt.

She glared at me defensively, and drawing an air of disapproval, closed the curtain of her isolation. Consequently I felt quite disregarded, and yet it occurred to me that she was only allowing me within the perimeter of her presence. Apparently, she was more willing to allow me break my own heart upon hers than I thought. Thus, stepping through her ruse, I removed my raincoat and placed it gently around her trembling white shoulders. Pulling a length of hair behind one ear, she looked up at me halfheartedly, and seeing my Armani soaking up the weather, forced a smile. Taking my hand, she pulled it sympathetically beneath the shelter of the coat and squeezed it tightly.

“What took you so long –damn it?” She asked.

“Forgive me–I lost my keys.”

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Emotional truth

As I imagine you lying here beside me -
I am embraced by the evanescence that you loved me once
and the promising warmth that you love me still
as the validity of my own heart caresses
- The sky.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The Vanity

In the evenings, she found her comfort in the cushion of an ottoman, sitting down softly in front of her own reflections–a three-mirrored vanity of Victorian origin. Despite its apparent antiquity, the surface of the dainty dresser was still polished and unmarred and housed one slender drawer whose brass handle is starting to show signs of tarnish. Each mirror, a center one flanked by two narrower ones, was lovingly farmed in cherry wood while the cabinet’s long and willowy legs fell curvaceously to the floor, ending in wooden cat’s paws. It was here, within the warm caress of a fine chardonnay, that she reviewed the items of the day as well as the articles of her life.

Organized atop her cherished repose were vials of scented oils and memoirs. On the right lay a horsehair brush, its silver back embossed with rose petals and vines, attended by a similarly engraved fine-tooth comb. There were assorted barrettes and hair ties and a jeweled French comb which held a particular place of prestige. Across the back, beneath the mirrors, stand several assorted perfumes, lotions, and crèmes of jasmine and lavender. A copy of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Adonais, its corners curled and tan, sits conveniently on her left as she picks up the silver-handled brush. Thumbing the horsehair bristles softly; she looks into the mirror on her left and begins to reminisce about the past.

Drawing the brush slowly through her hair, she remembers how her mother used to brush it every night when she was a little girl. She used to pull her golden tresses behind each ear and tenderly, cupping her cherub cheeks in the mirror’s reflection, assured her of the hidden beauty of which a looking glass cannot reveal. She imagines her mother still standing behind her in the mirror’s reflection, her eyes bright and full of life. Warmed by the memory, she gently sits the brush back in its proper place–not so far away that it isn’t still close to her heart. The image of her mother in the mirror slowly disappears, and yet the warmth of her touch remains.

Holding the length of her hair back with one hand, she fumbles for a barrette with the other while gazing into the center mirror, reflecting on the present. The French comb finds her hand and she began to secure her freshly-tended tresses. An ambiguous if not noncommittal gift, she thought; after all this time, what had he seen or not seen in me, she inquired of the mirror. Affixing the jeweled barrette, she examined each cheek in the mirror looking for that veil of beauty. Her features were still strong and angular, and yet her eyes were beginning to reveal the pangs of living. Thus pouring another glass of wine, she repositions herself with a huff and downs the entire ration.

Refilling her glass, she looks into the mirror on her right and tries to focus on the future. Her left hand drifts to the paperback and caresses its cover. It is soft with sentiment, and she is overcome by her loneliness as she recalls a particular passage of verse–The breath whose might I have invoked in song, descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven. Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng whose sails were never to the tempest given; the massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

Sitting the wineglass gently down on the polished wood, her gaze drops slowly from the mirror’s reflection and she begins to weep. Running her fingers softly over the tarnishing brass handle, the drawer slides silently out on its rails as she opens the cache of her secrets–bundles of aging letters bound by the confessions of undying love of which she was too good to reciprocate the affections. Where are you now, she thinks; that here in the remainder of my life, this cushion offers little comfort compared to the warmth of the love you professed to me. If I never said I loved you, it was only because I could not say it enough. Closing the drawer, her tears run warm with the absolution of which she cannot even forgive herself.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The streams of consciousness

As my thoughts are a babbling brook -
That they wind gently through the forests of my imagination
With their gurgling rhythms and echoing rhymes
And the cool, stimulating, caress of serenity’s inspiration
as they polish the very pebbles of my
- Poetry.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The paths of fate

Two souls stood upon a divided course
That together they could not take each
Therefore they stood in a length-full remorse
Such fortune feinted by dire discourse
And to fate's end they did then beseech–

“Our souls are bound.” Was their fair entreat
“Please spare us the choice of this sorrow;
This road is too narrow for our retreat;
The other too wide and incomplete
Thus of your wisdom may we borrow?”

The fates listened to the pain heartfelt
As their duty was not to proph’cy.
And here was a mystery to be rebuilt
This card of providence misdealt
Might they alter what was not to be.

Then spoke up the one wielding the shear
It matters not of which path you choose
For each road leads to Death’s kiss endeared;
If souls are bound they have not to fear,
For nothing can separate such hearts
- Thus true.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Damaged goods

Swans sing songs of such tales should you heed
of young maidens who weave webs of deceit.
Once a fetching such lass found me in need
and spun her spell on my heart’s last retreat.
Her kiss like honey was sweet with desire;
sugar flowing slowly from her tongue soft.
And her hands down my back’s length did aspire
as she lifts my last dollar from its loft.
Identity stolen, lust is dismissed
Bank account broken, betrayed by a kiss.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The intervals of inspiration

Such are the sparrows of thought -
Which land lightly upon my shoulder, wings whispering.
Their tiny black talons bite into me with invention
and my blood flows with the stream of their consciousness.
Thus with prophecy perched upon my tongue
I am moved by the weightlessness
- Of my heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Searching for Zen

Where were you when I was lost and broken -
And my heart was hurt and helpless
Did I not hold you the way you wanted to be held
And kiss away the sorrow in your eyes
That given the wings you needed to fly you flew
- Away.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Broken things

What is a heart that cannot be hurt -
Or a love that cannot be lost
When even a rose can only be a rose if it has
- Thorns.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Sleep’s dark and silent gate

Such is the threshold of a dream -
that I travel upon its bridge between light and lucidity
Guided by the shadows of your memory
that I might find my way back into the refuge of your
- Arms.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

When love isn’t enough

Would you not suffer my affections -
That I am left without the inspiration of your heart
Only to reconsider the passion within
- My own.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Denial

To indulge doubt -
with the intention of suspending belief
might we no more feel the pain than we acknowledge it
is simply to keep breaking the heart
which has already been
- Broken.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The death of a swan

With black pearls pleading -
she thrusts her breast skyward in absolution.
Angelic wings pound the air furiously with fabulous disaster
as the silken slenderness of her memory sinks
silently with the weight of my
- Heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Because we ended as lovers

How tender is the touch which lingers -
and soft the kiss that still sits silently upon these lips
that I reminisce about a lifetime of laughter
summer rain, autumn leaves, and those long cold winter nights
when I am remiss of the reality that you
- Are gone.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Blonde ambition

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.
He loves me not, he loves me…

(ring-a-ling-a-ling)

Hello? No, I’m sorry you must have the wrong number.

!

Dammit… where was I?

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Kestryl

Raven-haired beauty -
your kisses run wild like horses in the night
that I long to lay my own behind the trumpet of your ear.
Your fingers softly brushing the back of my hand
having caught me wandering wickedly through your wilderness
dropping apple blossoms along your
- Winding paths.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

All that we leave behind

As I lie here –
I listen for the unspoken beat of your heart
and the reassurance of your breath.
And yet the rain still taps coldly against my window
as the wind blows woefully through my wall.
And I cannot help but wonder
if there had been a better way to say
- Good bye.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The art of suffering

How sweet is the madness -
That you acknowledge the inspiration of pain
Simply to reshape the design
- Of your heart.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

My messiah

May I lay my head in your hap -

That you might comb your fingers gently through my hair
Whispering softly the comfort of your promise
As you help me find a better way
- To die.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Drowning pools

When the looking glass looks back –
May my words always be an expression of courage.
For a mirror is the reflection of truth
that I might not wish to see the revelation in my
- Voice.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

The tears of felicity

Yet it is not inspiration I seek –
That I find enlightenment within a single blade of grass.
But that I long for the release of my passion.
As like the dew which silently weeps, even for the rising
- Sun.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

1-900-Anxiety

I get my therapy over the phone -
She pushes happy pills in between cam shows.
“Take two of these and call me in the morning... Dahlin.”
I receive the anti-depressants in the mail in a plain brown wrapper.
Sure… her silk feels good against my naked skin.
But all ll I really needed was a
- Valium.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2007

Your love & other lies

Just as I used to believe in forever -
I used to believe in you, until you made me realize
That even forever is too good to be
- True.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010

Irreconcilable differences

When the distance is not enough –
Even that you may never have meant - to hurt me
You’re the only one who made me
- Cry.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010