Life is to short
to go through it in a blur.

Life is to short,
to fight with friends.

Life is to short,
to push the ones you love away.

Life is to short,
to worry about silly things.

You need to slow down
and enjoy the world around you.

Because you never know,
it may change in a blink of an eye

You need to stop
taking things for granted.

Because you don't know what you have,
till it is taking away from you,

Life is to short
to go through it in a blur.

Life is to short,
to fight with friends.

Life is to short,
to push the ones you love away.

Life is to short,
to worry about silly things.

Last night I told the moon to send my hello to someone
The moon didn't say anything back
I told the moon to keep an eye on somebody
The moon didn't blink even
I told the moon to brighten that path
The moon seemed a little irked
I told the moon my desires
My words seemed to irk the moon even more
I told the moon
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
Then I huddled, abruptly
This is the account that I earned from talking to the moon
My palaver is now going nowhere
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith
At that instant I got up
I picked up my stringed machinery
Instrument, tool, gear, whatever
I sang glancing to the moon
I told the moon many things
Only to find out the moon has no ears
Perhaps I am no poet
I'm a songsmith

the clock is ticking on the mantlepiece and the house is empty and cold
it is dark, and the dogs are barking and i can't think, oh god, i can't think, because the world is imploding and the clock has stopped ticking and
it has been silent for a while now
there is no reason to panic,  I tell myself,  no reason at all
but this is a lie and while it might help me breathe better,
it won't put the bullet back inside the gun
it won't force the words back down my throat,
or put the glass on the floor back together
the walls are on fire and the glass is sizzling, and red-hot
the smell of blood - yours, probably - is thick and strong and metallic
the walls are on fire and i can't think, can't even breathe, because the smell of blood is,
quite frankly, overwhelming.
and then i blink and i'm back here, in the kitchen,
and you're staring at me like i'm something interesting,
like i'm not a worthless scrap that the dog just brought in,
but i can tell something's still wrong because you're talking but the words
don't quite register
and then everything comes spinning back to earth, and you're still talking
only i can hear you now
and you're telling me that it's not okay, it's not right, you've had enough and you're leaving now
and it only takes me a moment to realize
that the whole world is currently wearing a plaid button-down and old jeans with
a hole in one of the knees
that the whole world smells like apples and laundry soap
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world resides in a three pound brain piloting
rather attractive meatsuit
it only takes me a moment to realize that the whole world is walking out the door
and that he probably isn't coming back

You might as well say
if a mail could aver
you needn’t have come her way
you needn’t have come this far,
to knock on her door
dying to tell her
how much you adore
how without her
even the stars don’t blink
happiness goes afar
rose is no more pink
all beauties macabre,
if a text could ever do it
you needn’t have traveled far
to drown in her your heartbeat
and feel yourself richer.

can't be unread.
The printer doesn't blink,
the enter doesn't shift.
Whatever sophrosyne 
is intended,
the core vowels 
get said.

I heard something.

Poems, like minds, 
can never unremember.
Colors commute,
meters commingle,
punctuation fluctuates —
what's heard 
is under.

Type your pulse.

Poems, like minds,
are incorporeal.
Exit, reapplication,
verbs are uncertain
& certainty's pending —
we only know 
susceptible.

I read your genome.

A touch on my nose
The blink of a ghost
Stains of coffee
Marks of pain,
Love is gone
It will not return.
All that is left
An empty home.

When you blink
it’s like a long slow
never-ending wave
like a breath of
acceptance
finally
letting go

What makes you so sure your sickness need not be heavily medicated?
You walk around, your body hanging like your favourite outfit that you never wear anymore,
stumped in a box
The street lights breathe like the cigarette that you smoke at the end of the night and regret immediately after,
the cigarette that tastes like glue,
The pads of your feet blink to the floor,
Your soft eyes watch the people and their smiles, they once represented jealousy but now sail past you like leaves of boredom from nowhere,
You chew on an energy bar as the purple plants, bike riders, suit case carriers and fire hydrants stroll by,
You make fists to fit eye sockets, but your hands stay by their sides
waiting for the courage to find the change that promises never to come,
You sit on the bench and wait for somebody who might chemically excite you
Your mouth clamps shut and your food rots inside of you molding your breath,
The dog walkers follow their excuses not to be lonely
and you crave a machine to make you feel better,
no human will do,
And the cats purr against tree legs and look at you as though you are stupid,
You sit around your friends wanting more intoxication
anything but this elasticated dribble of saliva they call ‘the gang’
Because another ‘gang’ is just another situation where you can feel alone and misunderstood again,
another metaphor for your life and incapability to feel comfortable,
You bathe in quiet awkwardness that only you feel
and cry when no one looks or when no one decides to see,
And you wallow in the self pity that sleeps in beer cans and wine glasses
searching at the bottom of them for someone who can relate to your loneliness,
And everyone thinks they’ve got the answers but you do too and you think the answers are no good either,
You call out on roof tops in the loudest voice your thoughts can muster
And the teachers who get paid to care have given up too,
So you sit like an old book being read over and over again melting to resemble an instruction manuel or something equally repetitious,
And you wait for the time to pass,
and the people too,
You wait to be interested by something,
anything that will comfort you,
But you seek solace in the smell of dustbins, petrol, sea salt, beer froth and your hands in the shower,
And hope that they’ll all
come together
and somehow
let you know
it’s going to be okay.

The feelings that I try
so hard to hide are always
able to escape in my poetry
and in those words
I am naked to the world
and  there I cannot lie.

I open my heart hoping
that readers will see the vastness
of  my own insignificance
hoping that my words
have the power to
change someone for
the better.

My poetry is usually written
single draft as a means
of expressing emotion-in-the-moment
and I allow the words to flow
watching where
they go.

Don't compare my life to others
because sometimes life isn't fair but
it is still good so make peace with your past
so it won't screw up your present
and know that everything changes
in the blink of an eye.

However good or bad something is
know that it will change
and you will be loved not
because of something you did
or didn't do.

Come to realize that
growing old beats the alternative
-dying young and miracles are waiting
everywhere as the words
that I have to offer the world
always find their way
out of me.                            Jon York        2013