I love you.
I love the things you say.
I love the things you do.
I love you in every single way.
I love your hair.
I love your smile.
I love how you play fair.
I love how you make me stay a while.
I love your voice.
I love how you love food.
I love the face you make when making a choice.
I love you in any mood.
I love you top to bottom.
I love how you solve a problem.
I love the way you walk.
I love the way you talk.
I love how you write.
I love you, day and night.
I love the way you hold a pen.
I love you more, every now and then.
I love your taste.
I love how our memories don't get erased.
I love how you get me to do anything.
I love your rights, I love your wrongs, I love everything.
I love how you look out the window.
I love how you make sure I don't feel like a zero.
I love how you love Christmas.
I love you, can I get a witness?
I love how you can cook.
I love how you love books.
I love how you love your sister.
I love how you admit to being a sinner.
I love how you're so smart.
I love how you're good at art.
I love how I feel when I look at you.
I love you, I don't know what to do.
I love how you never really get mad.
I love how you smile even when you're sad.
I love the way you dance.
I love the fingers on your hands.
I love you even when you don't reply.
I love how you're always beautiful, even when you cry.
I love how you answer the phone.
I love you more than you will ever know.
I love the fact you're still reading my poem.
I love how my heart is what you've stolen.
I love how you're grinning at how I can't rhyme.
I love you, even if I know you'll never be mine.
I am wondering if you can overdose on language.
too many whispered ‘i love you’s and soon
they become inky ‘I.O.U’s and debt has a different meaning
when it makes your ribcage feel empty. Soon the loan sharks come for your wasted tongue
I wonder if you can overdose on language, if
the dotted i’s of a letter can become swords after a while and
suddenly you do not care if the pen is mightier, only that
you do not want to read these promises anymore.
i wonder if maybe too many best wishes can be deadly too,
so i have burnt your letters but i am laughing because
maybe i am an addict of your words and maybe it is like
throwing out the substance after it has killed you.
We don't fight against man,
but his nature,
not blood nor bone,
but against principalities,
against the bottom of the glass,
against human nature.
A world of tolerance,
malice in disguise,
the pen is mightier than the sword?
Not a chance.
It is the blade that kills,
the razor that releases the flood,
for history is not written by the objective.
Words may trigger the safety,
but neither written nor spoken word,
will deflect the bullet,
ricochet will always claim its prize.
It is not great men that bring about change,
but men willing to change,
gun in hand,
sights lost in the moral periphery.
Liquidate modern ethics,
burn the fibers of morality,
enlist their disease.
here's a secret,
the weak can kill too,
and the day will come when man does not rule,
but man is ruled,
and on that day,
i looked in the mirror
this way and that
and tried to bend my eyesight
fracture the light that sent this image
speeding toward my mind
just in time
to trip me up, as i catch a glimpse
of myself in a window
sidewalk coming up to meet me
as i fall forward into my own flaws
i closed my eyes
and it was dark within the confines
of my webbed, ebbing thoughts
sticky with contempt for the days gone by
spent before this mirror
and i tried to imagine myself
flayed, clean and sparkling
naked, proud and walking tall
but all i saw
was an invisible girl
behind a strong shield
coat of arms held up, symbols falsely proud
a hammer, for stupid, useless strength
a blazing sun, for the heat of my unsaid words
a pen, for the silence of my honesty
a heart, for the things i have yet to find
and in the middle, emblazoned
bright white and gleaming
for the shield itself
i looked in the mirror
right, left, dead centre
tried to meet my own eyes
and saw only the mask
The woman, or the character?
Was I born of flesh, and bone,
or merely a figment born of a
lonely writer’s imagination.
Do I not see this woman I appear to be?
Were these eyes, with which I see
created for me within a mother’s womb, or
merely a mirror image of what you wish to see?
When I say the words “ I love you”,
is it my heart speaking, or the
emptiness of pen against paper?
Do I even possess a heart, do we?
When I cease to exist, will you fill my pain?
Kathleen M. Kohl/Levinski
He’s Not You
They all have the right lines
But it doesn’t taste as sweet
Rolling off their lips
They call me sexy and gorgeous
But it isn’t as flattering
As when hearing ‘you’re beautiful’
They all have the right moves
But they have their own rhythms
That don’t sync with mine
They pick up on the things I like
But they don’t make anything of it
To remind me that they still notice
They all have the right ambitions
But they have their own agendas
That are opposite of mine
They like the things that I like
But never the little things
That mean the most to me
They all have the right reasons
But they don’t have the safety
That gives me comfort to approach
They all have the things I should want
But they just don’t measure up
To all that they should be worth
They don’t stare into my eyes,
Smiling, with admiration and intrigue
They don’t find subtle ways to compliment,
Their own way of flattering me
They don’t call me “young lady,”
Make me smile for no reason, laugh without trying
They don’t keep me coming back for more,
The sarcasm, kindness, the ease of being myself
They don’t give me the nervous feeling,
Make me clam up, make me happy, all at once
They don’t give me a fire to ignite, to pick the pen up
Be the fictional character in a story inspired by them
They don’t see my insecurities, the flaw in personality
Try to make it beautiful, dare me to embrace them.
They have it all,
But they’re just not you.
I could have him,
But he’s just not you.
My voice is there I just forgot how to use it
all I had to do to escape
to express is utilize paper and pen
I get my point across better this way
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise
of sheltered dreams ~ and the soul,
of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might.
These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves
constant in cycle, to detract from nature’s
Heavenly sight. Lost we shall dream
and ever so patiently grow old but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically
correct and with an Indian craft
colorful, Heaven sent. Only captured in
a metaphor this day, so men do master,
so simple this way. Simple this as to
measure the years past, shudder away
tears, for the river purifies our passions
commandeered. So culture our gardens
to prosper and replenish, in the green
untamed, and natural in wonder,
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simple ~
ness of editing, not journeyed journals
to an ever-changing composition
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this
life. Sample the living, in books that
inspire. Dismal I think the desire to
purify a pen in this heavy practice, a
dance an art. Time lends a flavor,
marinating appealing to a fashion so
Always calm to prolong righteous
reason, modern making, yet captured
still as storytelling. Uncommon to cues,
but refreshing at leisure, is now a
computer who makes simple what once
was wasted time. Measures made in
this art are laborious, the passion is for
the pen, reel it in as your tool, rations
will in turn ~ give as a well to nature
and sow, the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of
detail, must reinvent and inscribe in
ink. The bank of intuition lay tender as
our diction. Replenish in the soil of our
native grounds to seed another tool, the
luxury of our lingo. For inspirations
may befriend or become uncharted if
left in the cold. Sold but without a
surrender to all integrity, we will call
for many souls to ship and receive what
Forefathers intended. In over our
heads, over watering our behaviors,
half unknowingly over diluting our
mental treasures, is this the liquor of
life, all too fancy in measure but it was
the tea of rebellion ~ and so I toast ~
to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation
now surely within time, we will fill the
promise within crafted lines, and file
away ~ many promises ~ many
revisions, many times. In spoil we shall
not surrender our bounty of honesty and
wisdom, so gray in years we
mend. Dent our self-serving self ~
respect, make and justify the wheel in
role common. Like a beard in keep,
intention is relevant. Surely women
refine makeup as to show beauty in
character. Thus what we intend to
refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled and
celebrate the qualities of growing
old. Time is of new defining, for the
times are naturally at all times ~ in
ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight are
the shades to carry our reflections
away. One, who trusts and so cares, lay
in the daydream of light. In a wish sent
salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the
flavors of life will flower in springs
day. We hanger thus shelter, the rags
made clothes, best when leather to
weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind
and make words potent as those before
did without regret. Today in general we
lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale
literature. Similar to wood varnished
but without the stains of life. First
revision is not for giving, only what is
taken, luxury of time. Color your copies
of the wood you talk in and pencil in
your pressures to relieve the pain,
simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold, as
buttered bread to fill. But imperfect, so
forthcoming, wills the literature of today
finding promise in ceremony by
charting drafts and revisions to send in
message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host
made monumental any verse, so breathe
within the soul and hearts of men, to
find new styles to milk the mind of
reason. Leafs from the tree of intuition
censure the picture, sell in the filter of
Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready
Battered but purely by pace and
meager beginnings, the wave of
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will saddle and shelter the idea
profound. Don’t toss away the raisin of
a pen in hand, for we lean to easily in
bits and bytes. Promise of Heaven’s
pennies falling in rhythm will sing
tonight. Majestic in find, common in ground,
gift a find, in leisure, in time. Gather
they guard and uphold the greater good,
not to entertain but inspire. Just as
ones soul is when right. Humbled in
behaviors so chips in clever may
fall. But poker face we have
become, once centered in earnest of
essays in rent, now owners of ideas
embellished ~ in verse ~ our native
treasures. Second, we charter the raft
of ideas in mend, to conceive works so
aspiring as the poets and linguists of
historic claim. So riddled ~ so
mastered. Surely a new discontent shall
offer, in a pebble of examples met, with
practice and structure our youth will
Demand must be patient, for
procurement in the arts of linguistics
will nurture and mother our future
Leaders to a discipline in their own
right. Never forget the days of past
generations for they marveled in the
arts ~ and in rain it falls in our hands ~
to luster and defend. Poetics are too
political if not in share. Protection of
this is how Freedom was rung. The
hungry will maintain its resolve and
rightfully so. Riddled as sow ~ these
lentils, this meal, these feathers, this ink
shall fuel the fire. A dance in the
pillows of night shall brush the painting
in the autumn of one’s days. Flaccid in
so many ways. Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this
intention. Freedom is in the work
engraved beside it, within it, sharing we
celebrate it, and our Brave provide
it. Celebration comes by way of duty
and hard work, and it rises high and
early in the dawn. Yes, on the Fourth
Day of July. Food and pleasures are
gifts for price paid by our Soldiers and
Agencies who protect and defend our
freedom and intelligence, and calmly
watch over it as we carry along. All
under the calm watch of Gods
umbrella. Future dreams are blessed a
same, for all under this Flag by notion
alone, seam and dress and hence sail
with solemn truth. Trusting the winds of
reason to keep us Forever Free and on
course to replenish the soil, for those
young in years. Students in the day
dream of life are in the send to allow
their pen to charter this peaceful but
daunting Nation to one of peace and
prosperity. Willingly and calm the Lion
stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always
reinventing in this idea we call ~ the
I can’t help but envy those
Whose first thought in the morning
Is a person or a place
Or a feeling or a face
Because all I have these days
Are a bottle and a pen
And a lighter and then
I think about how lonely the dark
Must feel to be
When it is only it and me
Because the dark is the only one who sees
What it is truly like to be me
It is the only one who knows
What happens once men walk out my door
When the insides of my thighs are sore
Because my insides tell me
I am nothing but a dirty whore
The dark must have been the one
That I am only destined
To get more and more sick
And my future is lipstick
And a hotel bar
Only because my present is a used rubber
And a tangerine scar
The dark knows how fucked up it is
To live inside of a head so twisted
The dark is tall and it’s black
And it stands on two feet
It watches me breathe
And it watches me sleep
It drinks all my tears
It knows all my fears and
It is always near
It shouts "Long live the fear!”
Into my ear
And “Long live the boozing
And smoking for the rest of your years
I know it isn’t fair
And, surely, it isn’t right
But it isn’t worth it to try to put up a fight
To a void with no mass;
A storm that cannot be put into a class
The dark wants me beat, and I know it will
The dark wants to eat, and it has me to kill
The darkness is a monster
And the monster is rare
But when it is around
You can taste it in the air
You can hear its hum
And you can feel its glare
So what would you do
If you felt the darkness there?
Essence, the conviction of the write,
shall reorganize the rations for those in practice.
This vision is the measure, and pressures will these passions,
manifested softly by pen.
Thus are fancy and cleverly written for your poetic heart.
The seed of the write is wisdom.
Undressing for simplicity is merely a token,
simply a diluted meal for the mind of reason.
Compromising style for form is seedless, a pit, un-fancy ~
sacrificing ones wit. A simple notion, a quietness of pen,
are seams without thread ~ and thus are sent in a haste.
Present your share in color ~ refresh your intuition.
For reasons that shall spill out from the heart.
Mental these thoughts sent...
With conviction, steady away miss- guided intentions ~
milk the ink of your composition, lose yourself in poetics.
Writers crave reasons to mend their sheltered words.
Monumental the blessings of your pen ~ trust it, write...
Savvy away grievances, mend your instinct,
refine your wit. Engage your readers.
Paint them fancy as promised.
Grow willingly to heavy your intelligence,
essential to your work.
Thus pen without compromise.
Deliver it until the ink runs dry...
Passion is art. Grind it to a discipline.
Reason alone ~ is the venture, not for pennies ~
not for a payout or a new home.
Fortune found ~ is in the share.
Pay enough for any writer.
So polish your send, edit away loose words ~
Clichés, a ticket to ride ~ are but a fast fix,
a passing of your intelligence.
Be fair to mind ~ be disciplined stay on edge ~
justified to the left, then write.
Diamonds are the fortune ~ not in count as coins ~
but golden as words reserved for two.
Slices of life are served here.
Quotes echoed from the friendly are the writers pay,
enchanted in rhythms, make a meal of this plate.
Cultured arts, flavored in time are dressed
and ready for marinating.
Marathon the heart ~ fine-tune your pen.
Simply hold the pen and write.
Clever, calm, true to scope of diction.
Memory strands of life are in bloom.
Shell it, drape your lingo.
Blossom to your duty.
Words shuffle for a climb off the rim of your page.
Guide them gently, an evenly pleasure them ~ sow ~ it shall grow.
Steady them away from formula blink at the mirror of repetition ~
crutch the pull of rhyme. Discipline the sharpness of your tool.
Pen your vessel to ride. on the waves of wonder and your words shall live ~
pleasure them ~ trust them ~ row to your bank ~
the poetic heart, jewels found by this promise are sent by feather ~
embrace it ~ write until the sheet is no more…