I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

He gave me dead flowers
So I can smell them every day
The rotten petals falling
The color of decay

The washed out sunflower
The dehydrated leaves
The mold on the water
The color of debris

The richly red rose
Now drooping to the floor
The color of love
Existed no more

But still I saved the flowers
And smelled them every day
And watered them with tears
To let them grow again.

i believe,
even the stars
get tired.

when the night sky
had folded them away
back into the darkness

and the moon,
that lonesome thing,
has doused itself in shadows.

so will you too, my friend
shy away from the light
as if it would burn
if it reached you.

maybe you feel,
you just are not strong enough
to face the day.

that the midnight hour
is a broken thing

and oh, the silence
is deafening.

and you and i know, even the stars
are tired.

you mourn for them
as their light expires.

when I awaken
I extend my finger
towards a panel of dancing light-

did you know that its veins were torn from a mountain?

a whole hierarchy of angels
living inside the earth
were turned to transistors

so that my letters
could glow in your hands.

when I learned this
I began sleeping beside a stream,

in the places where I could watch
wires dance-

beneath wooden pillars and their flimsy black arms
whispering secrets in permanent embrace.

every night I would dream  
to the forward noise
of churning water;

of fluid drifting through the air unseen
or pouring from life long past-

terraforming
for the maintenance of symmetry.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

Some women belong to the Spring.
They're meant to bloom,
but they were never yours to keep.

"I liked your smile better
When you were younger,"
She said
I was tempted to ask why
But we both knew.

Oh what a privilege,
to have known you.
I will carry a piece of you,
in my heart forever.

Your love is always perfect, it is always real as well.
You have brought me close to some Great poets ever.
In fact I would say the greatest poets that live today.
I appreciate that I can really enjoy their beautiful writes.
So one thing that I am asking you O Saving God tonight.
You are already using them mightily double that portion.
In each of the make their poems twice as beautiful please.
Also make their poems twice as powerful as they were before.
Bless them with doubling their poetry talent in every way now.

Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look

dont worry
(i didnt tell you when to stop)--



fireflies meant a little more to me
only

because

they
flashed

just much more at you -- who
minds everything and nothing
at once;

spinning their tails in
feigned surprise
at the way your eyes got circles like theirs
through
the
cat-tail night



you know how sparklers
make spirals
bright and dark at the
same

(one time one
of them
burnt my thumb) --

i remembered for so long
still
its just

one of those things;

because,
you know

fur becomes branches of
electric light, if you

let it,

if you

practice ::

and i am cold and so,

ask me please if

i want your coat

& of course
& of course
i refuse it,

see: (i only want the fireflies to like me like i
like you too) and


years ago I munch sandwiches in ceremony
to passing clouds:
to

passing sunlight:


on the bends of the the benches
of corners of streets in towns
who love the taste of
stains of birdshit and
dont know who they are

NO --

what they want

yet


who push villages
against the surface of the
waving countryside

[feilds of grass winking, knowing, something]

and cradle in the middle of them
a rocking and tangled digestion

of homelessness and billboards who


swing against buses with a
a false (it's funny)
sense of precision

of building some

thing

that should be beautiful
in the future

but

in the meantime
costs so much, my dear


it's made of the
expense i spent

leaning in market stalls;
holes dropping rain from
frayed and striped
circus stall ceiling,
smelling of **** and the colour of
wet tobacco
smudged on the

scars on my

knees,

and festering fruits
and flirting and

heels clicking on the pavement which really does twinkle

in sunlight



(erasing whole

countries,;

if i'm not careful -



for the moments in between
moments i
persist
in dangling, for you



back to front around the
outer edge of the golden ring you wear on your
finger

One day i'll find a Way

with a twist of the cruve of my spine
to turn
it-in-to


a Moebius strip (or the look of one) at least


at least a dent that could be gone in or could be
gone out

in a depth that links and breathes,
as long as we choose to see it

darling -- wait for me

You are my favorite chapter
in the story of my life.
Your page is dog eared
so once I reach the end,
I can revisit you.

our eyes could tell stories
my hand well in your cheek
and dreaming would be all too real

if skies were like warm sheets
i’d fall through the clouds still
'cause laying with you is all I need

if i visualise us,
i wouldn't be ready to be living in it
when we ride through the good times
singing by the bonfire
and we'll cry through the bad times
leaving sunsets behind us
i wouldn't be ready to be living in it
even if i visualise

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

of all the things i regret,
You will never be one of them.

Agreed, that love is attraction
    - though not only surface sensual,
      as you maintain,
      not only toward the external -
But that sweet involuntary pull is
      also inward for expansion;
      for interior sifting
      and resolution.
Love is primarily attraction to
      unexplored depths
      of the self.




- fr

she: what is it about me?
he: what do you mean?
she: me...?
he: uh...
she: what don't i have?
he: uh...
she: i'm overweight...
he: um...
she: i'm unattractive
he: what?...
she: i'm boring
he: no...
she: i'm dumb
he: uh, well....
she: i give up
he: well, i....
she: nope, that's it, i give up
he: oh, come on...
she: quit trying to talk me out of it
he: i was only...
she: i'm done, good bye
he: wait, what, where are you...
she: have a good life
          he:.....
he:....
he: what about dinner?

I read a book that reminded me of you

It reminded me of the days I wished to find a way out
To go through a door that would lead me somewhere else
somewhere better

I never found that door

And you never got better

I wish you had

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

you never know how much
you truly suffer

until you’ve caused your
own sufferings

this feeling is not
symbiotic: you reduce
my core to nothing

‘Aren’t you afraid of my darkness, my dear?’ Hades asked with mischief in his eyes.
‘No.’ Persephone replied, ‘You haven’t seen mine yet.’

How do you
Forgive yourself
For all the things
You never became?

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

as i went digging through the aisles
looking for my next haphazard meal
looking up from the sickly beige floor
two boys stood there smiling.

Brown floppy hair and freckled faces
the pair of them
greener eyes than the
basket at my feet
all lips and teeth grabbing themselves at the wrists.

to playfight in the pasta section is a pure
display of affection
to grin at another boy crouching down
like something famished
to learn that people can feed you
with nothing but love.

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.