Let my hands be the pages
That hold your unspoken words
Let my voice be the letters
That refills the pages once burned

"I'm not a poet. I don't feel like one.
I like writting. That's all."

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)

Thirty days tomorrow,
a slightly disheveled gait.

And the debt to be paid
In waking to the painful knowing
That noone wants closure.

It's waking every day.
Waking sober.

I’m sick of all these love songs
Written about another
Sonnets and odysseys
Desperate for a Lover

I want to enjoy the silence
Nihility subdue
Equally alone
As I am with you

I try to reflect Compassion
A metric of good health
Psuedo-neo Truism
Learn to “Love Thy Self”

Press me against you
Like flowers in a book

Sometimes, the words don’t come.

The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.

I am left with nothing to say.

There is a beauty in the broken mind.

Like an abandoned building taken by nature.

It is not that my mind does not work.

It is that it works too fast,

And I am left behind,

Scrabbling in the dust,

Desperately seeking a connection,

In the discarded fragments of thought.

I am fighting a losing battle.

I fear the white flag will soon arise.

And signal the end.

It’s 8 am
And I was writing
Poems in my sleep
Perfect prose
If every
Mundane minute
Was at least
A year
Coffee stirrers
And reaching
Into the glove box
For ribbon

8 am and it’s
The third morning I’ve had today

And here, I lie, as red fills the floor
Tied to these walls built for centuries
Eyes grew cold, My mouth taped shut
My body goes numb as my vision goes blank

you don't exist when
my eyes are open
you don't exist when
my blood's not poisoned
when my soul's at peace
when my gut is full
and when I'm in company

So you exist most of the time
dear muse

I converse with
The voices in my head

They talk slowly
So their guidance isn't misread

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.

I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Real,
Or just figments of the author’s
Imagination
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it

i never intended
to take apart
all the pieces
you glued back
together

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.

when everything,
my world,
began to shake,
i could feel my balance slip,
i called.

i called for you,
softly,
barely able to stand,
i called the only word i could,
with childlike desire,
“mom”

i didn’t dare say more,
besides quietly,
frightened,
ashamed,
call out for you.

while the adrenaline ran,
i began to stumble,
unable to catch myself,
and when i went down,
down grasping,
begging,
i called for you.
“mom”

unable to muster the energy,
the loud cry,
my call for you was as it always is,
weak and unheard.

even now,
effects wearing down,
the cry remains.

silent,
in my mind,
“mom.”

You talk about attraction
But I only heard subtraction,
It's me leaving a building
It's you fleeing a country,

Still I count my numbers
If they are repeating,
Showing up
In various places,

I pay attention for a while
Before I lose my faith
In reading signs,
You know the feeling when magic dies.

But I paint you the sky
If you ask me for a cloud,
Tender is the Night,
Your lightning striking through the Sky.

The one that I painted,
So I can only blame me,
For me leaving a building,
And hating you for fleeing,

For being in love
With someone else
And when I was ready to tell you that,
You told me you were coming back.

sleeping softly in knickered wood
watering bamboo running wild
in leaf paddies lost in the memory
yes, yesterhours gleam
the clock is broken, the shopkeeper
broke- it was yesteryears problem anyways.
loving of all, the curtains quietly draw close
the windows hold steady, not softly shaking with the wind

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

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."

Needle woven regalia
purrs on Her lap,
on Her lips rest
the many times
She has humored me.

There is forever
in Her stare. The
quiet eyes of a skeleton.
She,
dictating time in
monosyllabic nods,
always played the game
just for the sake of it.

I fathered Her
peeling sense of torment,
the various synonyms for
unavoidable. She, knowing
that being is most fertile
in the moments we
can’t escape.

To bloom anew
in boundless variations
of the truth, She,
more than anyone,
knows that
the original is smeared
frequencies of static
across several journeys, it
our quotidian ado,
negligible and empyrean.

have you ever felt the intimacy
of sitting alone in the dark
with nothing but rain and fear
as your only companions?

I wish
her scars were on my heart
and not on her arms.

I see the lights through the window
Forming shapes in your ceiling
We lie in bed and you look at me
You don't say what you are thinking
But you smile and get closer.

I hear the traffic through my window
Keeping me awake till late at night
Too late to say what I was thinking
That time I wanted to stay
But left anyway.

block pain receptors                                
the seeds make these peppers hot
jalapeño fruit

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.

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.

Dear death,

I have met life,
He wants me to fight,
But I'm so weak-
So can we meet?

When I look at you,
I don’t see darkness
I don’t see rain
I don’t see pain

When I speak to you,
I don’t feel sadness
I don’t feel neglect
You always show respect

When I think of you,
It gives me strength
Because you’re so bright
My brightest light

When I dream of you,
I find myself in your arms
Right where I belong
Right where I feel strong

When I fell in love with you,
I knew it was true
Because you drowned my sorrows
And now I can see tomorrow