like the moon
I go through

phases

some of my
lights go out

and I become
dull and distant

give me time
they will come

back on

like the moon
I do not ask

for praise or
forgiveness

it is just a
phase

I am going through

crooked lips and
gleaming teeth
sunken bones and
hollow eyes

empty empty empty

that is the smile of someone
dead inside

Inside you

is where I want to

be,

thrusting

within the folds

of your mind

penetrating

the sweet softness

of your soul,

throbbing

as I release my love

deep within you.
                                     Jon York   2019.

"i don't want you to drown"

please, i'd be so much happier
submerged under water

I recognize you, God, in the fractals of raindrops
There is a pace to Gravity, what staples your mind
To our belief that heartbeats are set by waves
Blood is the concentrate of sea and we fear the depths
Of naivete
That we skip as stones off the grave marker Moon
And do not dig an orbit the rest of life spies with telescopes
In amaze

𝗜'𝗺 𝗮𝗻 𝗔𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻-𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗻. 𝗜'𝗺 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 & 𝗜 𝗱𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗹𝗲
𝗖𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗰𝘀 & 𝗜 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗰𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗱. 𝗠𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗔𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 & 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮
𝘁𝗼𝗼 & 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗔𝗳𝗿𝗼𝘀 & 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗻
𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝗮 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗯𝘆 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗯𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝘂𝗯 𝗮𝘁 𝟰𝟴.

You're troubled, I know
You have a tough time opening up
There's a lot of trauma you suppress

I wanted to fix you though
I wanted to give you the world
I wanted to be the reason you could see things in a different light

But you ran away
You ended things before we could've grown together
You ended things before there could have been an "us"

You removed me from your private story
You don't talk to me anymore
And I hate it

I know you have no one to talk to about your problems
I know the people in your life don't understand you or care
But I do, and I always will

I seem to be broken now.
Pieces fall as strangled
shapes to the floor.  
I toe them, looking
for the edges to rustle
back together.

Fragments fall.
Dried edges and shriveled
meanings.  (The torn
remains of my old age.)

I think I am broken.
My poems drift
off as blowing leaves
in a dry season.  
I rake them into
a pile.  The crackles
and snaps. The ends
of thought.

I write this to save the few
remaining poems I have.
Words fall from the
dustpan of dry letters
on a cold night.

Caroline Shank
1.20.21

Dear me,
Don't just sit
Rise, and pursue greatness.

Don't just watch
Go after what you want.

Don't just exist
Strive and start living.

Don't just dream
Work hard and aim for success.

Don't get tired
Keep hiking until you get to the peak.

sometimes i wonder what it's like
to be a star
to look down on the world
while it's asleep
to watch the lost souls
wander outside at night
and look up at the sky
and smile
i wish i could be a star

ever so gently your loving embrace engulfs me
your sweet breath is an ****** high
swimming in your waters , your scent drives me into
a  frenzy
I will drink from your well alone for a vow was made
I will meet your breast with a gentile caress
ever so lightly I feel the slip of your earlobe between my lips
as I lay next to your curves I lovingly kiss the nape of your
neck.
softly whispering my love for you  and only you.

I am the deep, the sky in reverse
I have what you seek, for better or worse

I am the blue of infinite depth
I've swallowed the crews and cleared the decks

You are afraid or maybe intrigued
Of the place where you played and also was freed

Kiss me now like you did before
Give me your vow and the ocean is yours.

They’d waited too long to say

“I love you”.

3 words. 3 syllables.

Yet they held millions of emotions unspoken.

and now that they’d done it, they wouldn’t,
couldn’t, stop

they told each other all the time. In the end of the argument and before the good news.

In the middle of the storm, even though it was hard to see, and after, when the raging winds had settled on a breeze

before the rising sun turned the sky pretty colors and after it flickered out and faded away into the dark

Underneath the stars that their love had been etched into

There was no love until death for them. Because it would never stop. Their love was beyond. It rose above any border that would dare to try and stop it. There was no finish line

because they were each other’s end game.  
-L.R

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

What's this all about .?

I'd like to cut my heart open
to take you out
or maybe
to see you one more time

To this day,
your name
still hurts my tongue
but I still say it anyway.
Sometimes I like to
hear my soul
gently tear itself
apart.

I want to write a book
called,
'Inside your mind in 80 days'
and
write it
as a travel log
like Phileas Fog and Passeport.

The question is always "What do you want?",
But the answer? The answer...
We never know.

Yesterday I could do it.
Today I can't
Yesterday I was awake, alive
Today my sleep comes easy, easy
It's easy to lay here and drift
To dream of better times

My friends, my supporters
They are tired
Tired of me
I ask for help
At every turn
I'm tiresome

In the beginning
I had a sense of entitlement
I still do at times
I deserve help
I'm a good person
What's happening to me is not my fault
But it is my fault, in part
There is always some truth
I did this to me, I know I did

But that doesn't change that I need
That doesn't change the pain
That I don't have the means to heal

I rise up, I take my meds
Like the good little adult I am
I go through my list
I need to call them....
Can I do it?
Not today

Can I do this?
Persevere?
I don't know
Yet.

In the cold, dark
        of January,
         I remembered
              you
        the most.
  As the chill
      snapped bones
              like branches,
     as the afternoons
   bathed themselves
in gray,
     as the birds
and the backs
      shook,
so did my lips
   around your name.
I'm so happy
     January is almost
over now.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

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

Dallas, November 1963
Fifty-seven years since they shot Kennedy
Everyone saw then live on T.V.
what happens when you challenge
secret society

Some say the mob or the CIA
Either black or white, but the truth is gray
and long since buried 'neath Texas clay
right next to good ol' LBJ

I ask not what my country can do for me
Blood on her hands, Lady Liberty
Let sleeping dogs lie, leave history be
The truth died in Dallas, 1963