Nothing
enrages me
or engages me
quite as much as
you two
I suspect
you feel the same way
too

I like that I'm broken
It means
Imperfections are normal
As damaged as
My mind is
At least I hold
The key behind
Real art
And beauty

You can't make a flower bloom.
You can shine all you want
but it won't open
until it's ready.

If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

I read the sign on the door
OPEN.
OPEN.
OPEN.

I knock and after a pause
I see a girl smelling of roses

She beckons me inside
She offers me shelter

That's when I realise
I have found the answer

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 bought a little budgie and put him a cage
i guess he didnt like it he began to  rage
so i bought a mirror to keep him company
hoping this would help him to be temper free.

then i bought a ladder put it in there too
now he could have some exercise like the budgies do
bought a little bell so he could make it ding
tap it with his beak so the bell would ring.

now he looked so happy i went of to bed
then when i arose the poor bird was dead
i bought all the things a budgie he might need
the only thing i never got was the budgie seed

You're every season
in my life
every reason
I need to survive and
everything that
I want us to be

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

O little cloud,
where have you gone?
You sink to wisp or worse.
Your grayness turns bone-white,
then a cancerous blue
until you are nothing -
no, you are nothing now.
Your grave is the air
that I breathe.

I sharply decline with you;
you, up in your vault,
waiting for the densities
that will crease you into rain,
I in my mug-clutter,
my liquor-ploughed
library of ills,
try to cope,
come to grips.

Little cloud,
you died a long time ago.
You were reborn,
& died again. You've died
so many wet deaths.
I understand.
This is no world
to live in more
than a day or two.

our hearts weep for this inhumane society that we live in
you say you care but we hear you cheering for evil and hate
you say you are a stand for righteousness but we see your arrogance

our hearts weep for the injustice to our communities
you say you care for our families but you throw rocks at us
you say you love our children but you trash their future

our hearts weep

i still
do not know
the poem i've been trying to write
and maybe
that's because
i haven't been
writing one at all
or maybe it's because
the poem i've been trying to write
is not ready for paper
and maybe
i'm the paper
that's not ready for it

I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me

i spend my days
pouring myself into the cups of others

only to find that
when it’s time for myself
to take a sip

all that’s left
in my cup
is the remainder of a girl
who gave too much

I make my own soup and I kiss my own boo-boos,
I tell tall tales about love, hell, and voodoos.

I cover up my sadness with jokes, smoke, and malice
Who knew living a tragic life could feel so lavish?

God and I have a pretty tight relationship
I talk to him every night when my fingers touch my lips.

I throw my bones at dogs and contort my soul for fun,
Chewed up, spat out. I’m just like everyone.

-SLuR

If I run scared in the meadows
If I cry underneath a willow,
Do you even care
Would you dare to follow?

You have seen me smile,
Have you ever listened to my cry?
Do you even care,
I bet you never dared.

The river is the first to mourn,
As I stand on the edge alone.
One last time,
To you I say goodbye.

This chapter is over
I put the book down
I walk into the sun
My feet on the ground

This chapter is over
Let it not make a sound

You might not remember my name ,
but i am still the same .
I am The bright sunlight before the morning cloud ,
the silence before the storm ,
the wicker and the worm .

I am in the bough of a tree ,
that whispers through its falling leaves .
that branch when you were a child when you used to seesaw on
me for a time .

For I am The word that sharpens you’re tongue ,
before a sentence has begun .

I am the arrow that is plucked from you’re bow ,
that tells you’re target where to go .

For I am the oxygen you breath in the night ,
You’re unspoken  thoughts both in the day and of the night .
like you and I on a carousel on a hot summers day ,
those dreams will fly away .


I am in the rainbow that
that spreads far and wide ,
that tell the rain clouds
where to hide.

I am in the words “ I can’t be there “ ,
when that train pulls away ,
and you’re clasping thin air .
When the fumes from the train ,
fill you’re lungs full of smoke .
and the cabbie says “ just you my dear ?

For when you are alone by the grave of you’re friend ,
I will be in the honeysuckle that flowers .

And when you’re world is full of sorrow
I am the binding that holds tomorrow.
I will be the silver lineing when the clouds are still there .
I can be the ray of sunlight that beams from afar ,
that hears you’re prayers ,
that shines down on you’re coffin ,
when heavens doors are ajar .

If you ever miss me.
Come find me here.
Don't search too far.
I'm here.
I'm not lost.
I'm always here, in my poetry.

I traced the texture of your words
Like my heart was blind
And your voice was braille

She was a thrifted sweater and denim and jersey knit sheets
Pizza breath and red wine and toothpaste
Alabaster skin and knotted hair and freckled shoulders
A tangible dream and my favorite good morning
She agreed to let me kiss her and I agreed to let her slip my shirt over my head before she became
Blood and tears
"I trusted you" and "I’m sorry"
Midnight poems and a drunk "I need you"
I’m afraid I loved you like the way I wrote

fcking freedom hell yeah

You.
Are.
A.
Walking.
Masterpiece.

My entire life,
I have been waiting.
For years,
Almost two decades now
I have been waiting.
Waiting,
For the better parts.
Waiting,
For the “soon”.
Waiting,
For my life to begin.
Because,
I don’t feel like I have lived.
In the nearly twenty years
I have been alive
And breathing
I do not feel
In any of those years
That I have been alive.
I don’t feel like a single breath
That I have taken
Has been real.
I feel as if
All these years
I’ve been stuck
Behind a window
Watching as my life unfolds
Before me.
I feel that
I have had
Zero control.
That I am in the backseat
Letting someone else drive.
That someone else,
Is writing on the pages
Of MY life.
But no more.
I will break that window,
I will take that wheel,
And I will write
My own pages.
My life has begun,
And now -
I’m in control.

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

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.

La alcachofa
de tierno corazón
se vistió de guerrero,
erecta, construyó
una pequeña cúpula,
se mantuvo
impermeable
bajo
sus escamas,
a su lado
los vegetales locos
se encresparon,
se hicieron
zarcillos, espadañas,
bulbos conmovedores,
en el subsuelo
durmió la zanahoria
de bigotes rojos,
la viña
resecó los sarmientos
por donde sube el vino,
la col
se dedicó
a probarse faldas,
el orégano
a perfumar el mundo,
y la dulce
alcachofa
allí en el huerto,
vestida de guerrero,
bruñida
como una granada,
orgullosa,
y un día
una con otra
en grandes cestos
de mimbre, caminó
por el mercado
a realizar su sueño:
la milicia.
En hileras
nunca fue tan marcial
como en la feria,
los hombres
entre las legumbres
con sus camisas blancas
eran
mariscales
de las alcachofas,
las filas apretadas,
las voces de comando,
y la detonación
de una caja que cae,
pero
entonces
viene
María
con su cesto,
escoge
una alcachofa,
no le teme,
la examina, la observa
contra la luz como si fuera un huevo,
la compra,
la confunde
en su bolsa
con un par de zapatos,
con un repollo y una
botella
de vinagre
hasta
que entrando a la cocina
la sumerge en la olla.
Así termina
en paz
esta carrera
del vegetal armado
que se llama alcachofa,
luego
escama por escama
desvestimos
la delicia
y comemos
la pacífica pasta
de su corazón verde.