I'm writing you a poem,
not to boast of my eloquence
but because your very existence has given me a lifetime of inspiration.

You are not a mere muse,
but you are every word spoken softly,
gently.
In my ear.
But if spoken loud enough everyone would hear.

So I will speak for you.
I will say it in a room that echos
so it can be heard again and again
until the words return to their original form,
a whisper.

You beautiful creature.
You beautiful boy.
I saw the honesty in your eyes.
**Like I heard your whispers.

A warm embrace from city grates
combats the colder breeze
How then should I continue?

A further stroll might treasure hold
But of this, none assures me.
Then why should I continue?

I might have stayed and soothed my pain
My legs had faltered for the thought
Why then should I not stop?

In short, I kept on in my walk,
But often now I think of how
I could be different now
If only I had stopped.

when two hearts fall in love. together they entwine
like a grape thats growing clinging to its vine.

sharing love together  loving heart to heart
there forever more never will it part.

growing side by side to last your whole life through
both hearts entwined in love  with a love so true

i walked in my garden on a summers  night
suddenly i saw something shining bright
there i saw two faires dancing round the shed
both had gowns of white and tiaras on there head.

waving with there wands as they began to prance
i sat there and watched them do there fairy dance
having lots of fun dancing to and fro
they fill me with delight and gave my heart a glow.

dancing both together in perfect harmony
dancing in my garden there in front of me
when they finished dancing they waved and said goodbye
waved there magic wands and flew in to the sky

i love you this morning
it's a come home safe morning
fog on the road
& no seatbelt kind of morning
the sun is over easy
& nothing's on fire
there's punctuation
where i don't want it
and extra love
in the glovebox of my car
been thinking about being honest
how these poems are all me
but they tell the story
how someone else
might believe it happened
within reasonable doubt
no copy & pasted love letters
no 'who ever says hello first gets my attention for the day'
try a little tenderness
in my ears and today
there are instruments
in the back of my head
i think you love me
because i'm sunburned
felt it in a 'come hell or high water' kinda way, that 'touched from far away' kinda way that 'if i touch this piano one more time one of us is going to break' kinda way
and i drove over 17 bridges yesterday and today i'll do it again
and i think nobody gets
what that means except maybe you
i just tell them i love the scenery
that somebody must've made
these trees blush just for me
you know how i love
to change the subject
i bet they'd love the view
i bet you would too
and all these metaphors
for other things are beside the point
this is a metaphor
for why i don't wear my seatbelt
a metaphor for why whiskey
knows me better than you
could ever try to
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars
are doing that cliche thing
where they talk
quiet jet noise
& some lumbering giant
made everything shake
not those hand metaphors
not another one of those
& keep the sea to yourself
i think it was a train
it's sound hugged the embankment
for a moment
and then trailed off into nowhere
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue'
close to my home &
it's no coincidence
that i've never been there

"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"

I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.

Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.

Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.

Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.