under the autumn rain
the flight of a lonely seagull
draw the sky

A blade of grass
Descends slowly
And it gets caught in your hair.

51 seconds have gone by
and i want you to write
despite, having just sent
what i had said
this love thing's for life
in my heart
like you're in my head
it's awful trite

I love you
whatever that means.

I don't feel special,
I'm not unique.
I want to cry
but I can't even speak.
My hands reach out,
but they cannot hold
a single thing
but the bitter cold.
Everything's frozen,
I feel lost.
Even my tears
have turned to frost.
When I cut my waist
it bleeds black.
I'm so deeply gone
there's no way back.
This is goodbye

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)

I have stared
Far too long
At this blank page.
I've come to the hard realization,
Like a refugee raft,
This poem won't write herself.

All I know
Is how
I feel

And sometimes I
Wish I
Knew nothing

Let me draw my dreams
in your brown eyes
Let my soul smile always
on your happy face!

Let my mind be colored
in your colors
Let my empath heart sink
for your tears!

Let me follow your shadow
in the morning ray
Let me pray for you, baby
every new day.

I let the moon go away
when you smile at me
I forget my raceway
when you're onto me.

Darling, keep smiling
as you always do;
You know the answer as well
when I do love you!

When I was little
I was scared
Scared of the monsters living under my bed
I used to hide, under my blanket
Under my blanket, I was safe
The monsters couldn’t reach me under my blanket

My parents used to say
The monsters would go away
I would grow up and that then they would leave

But I grew up
And the monsters didn’t leave
Turns out my monsters, grew with me
Now instead of under my bed
The monsters live inside my head

So I hide, under my blanket
Where I think I am safe
Wondering if after all this time
My blanket can still keep the monsters at bay

Sharp jagged rocks, a river
doe's flow, I hear
your voice on the breeze
I've learned a lot and
one thing I do know
is your cry in the pine
on the trees. Lover
of life with a care free
spirit induces me to
see, that you are wild
and I'm nowhere near
it is why it's unsettled
in me. It's your way
that beaconed me,
it caused me to see
that you were a lover
of all. I was under
your spell now I'm
finally free I'm no longer
six inches tall.

Forgive me, but I don't
want to explore my feelings,
backpack through insecurity
or interrail across buried pain.
There is no pride to be found
in travelling to those places
or even in a triumphant return.
Instead, I'll make my feelings
comfortable by giving them
a seat inside a steady room,
beside a window with a view

A loon communes on the lake,
the lake is a tear drop on Mother Earth,
the ripples flow like glass being blown,
I am perched on my porch.
The loon cries once more,
I puff on my cigar,
the smoke shifts indecisively,
it moves much like the unchained around me,
free willed and wild.
I dream of being unchained.
My branches stretch out,
they yearn for the sun,
but heavy grey clouds hang on puppet strings.
Overcast and encumbered by responsibility,
they shroud the sun,
blanket it with regret and doubt.
I dream of being unchained.
I lower my branches and shout,
but no one hears,
my voice is chained.
The loon cries out,
it echoes unrestrained.

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."

I sit in silence and stare out the window
Just for an instant I wonder, what is time?
I watch it snow. A cast of white, bright.
A million flakes, each its own, all in a hurry
Trapped in time, all together but alone, 
In a fleeting millisecond, here together.

I sit in my chair and stare out my window.
Just for an instant I wonder what is mine?
I watch it go, seemingly faster and faster.
A swarming sea of faces, shades of good.
Beings trapped in time, alone but together.

I get up, leave the chair, glance out.
It’s all gone, no more white none at all.
The memories of the past erased
Each face fades away,
Each flake melts.

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

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.

Saturn is in
line with
Venus tonight
but, nothing's easy
when you're down.
The clowns walk
around, dressed in
yellow; fast food smiles
and cheeseburger
souls, and nothings
easy when you're down.

The dancers with poles
and sadness, that Halloween,
fires burning...childhood,
perfumed dreams,
kind of sadness fills the
navy blue night.
I can't find the North star,
and the jack-lanterns lie rotting
in the streets of Nebraska
and Kansas, and the candies
all gone, and the kids wait.
And I can't find  
the deep blue shirt I bought
at Goodwill, and Billy Burroughs
is filled with worms and earth,
and Bukowski looks at Satan
and says, "what do you
mean, we're out of whiskey?"

I've never been much for the stars,
and family and Thanksgiving are
painfully overrated,
and nothing's easy when
you're down.

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

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.

Emeralds
No, moss
Leaves
On a Weeping
Willow tree
Those sorrowfully
Beautiful
Windows to the soul
Of that green-eyed
Afghan girl
that touched us so.

my keys
locked them
in the car
with no drive
couldn't go far

I lost
my head
it rolled
on the floor

I lost
my footing
and fell
outside your door

I lost
years
of a life
that was green
till I took my brush
and painted the sky
with all your lies

I lost
count
of the painful
things you said
but like sheep
I put them to bed

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

there aren’t any tears
as I watch the days slip by;
commitments made
disappearing
alarm bells fading into luscious sleep.

there aren’t any tears
as I feel myself turn inside-out;
pain ripping through
raw like open wounds -
try to hold myself together.

there aren’t any tears
as gentle corners on my face
upturn and I swallow bitter
spite as it rises in my throat:

unfair:
there are no tears
the river’s flow has ceased;
but still I hear the rush of
blood beneath my skin.

Her eyes were fiery
While her lips peeled away
Her sun was setting
But her colors never fade
When she bites she is bitter
But when she smiles she is sweet
Like a nectarine emblem
She’s the fruit of life’s tree.

when i wanted to die
i wished my grief would swallow me whole
like a boat caught in a storm
and with a soft, tender kiss,
would bid me a soft goodnight

keep your eyes closed love.

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

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

the red glow of her cigarette.
the fingers of her left hand
yellow  with nicotine
clutching dying flowers

"buy a rose for your lover," she says,
"buy one for your wife. buy 2."

"the flowers are wilted."

"maybe it's your eyes that are wilted.

she had black hair
black as the night
the violent night
and gray eyes
the shade of ***** ice

"you must love
someone,
some of the time, no?
put a rose on
your father s grave, then"

"love is like lost pennies
falling from a broken jar"

she smooths her hair with one pale,
long, fingered hand, "you re crazy,"

"my mom says so."

i was born to
have adventure

I followed her up the steps

i was born to chase the night
through the forest
of dead roses

I wonder if I really am kind hearted.
Most people think it’s true,
But maybe I’m just afraid of being mean-
Maybe I’m afraid of being you.

She had that
octopus smile,
always reaching for
something.
I was her small
fish; her handmaid.
I lived in her nebulous
world for far too long.
Inky confusion...

There's a reason for
your treason, said the
old man to the shark,
but Hem forgot, a beast
is a beast, they do
beastly things.
We all have to eat.

I'm done being the
meal.
It's your Ocean,
I'm just trying to
swim in it.

You're an oyster,
and I want your
pearl,
but I won't drown
for it.

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections