A piece of you
Reflecting back
The bitter words in your mouth
Too raw to speak
A poet is
Someone in pain
And someone in love
Someone who looks at the world
Through a kaleidoscope
Who takes a magnifying glass to each
And every
Word you say
And lets them imprint on their heart
A poet is
A star gazer
A dreamer
A chaser of
The improbable
But hopes anyway
A poet is
Tissue paper skin
A heart of glass
And a soul of titanium
A poet is
A sharp tongue
And a gentle kiss
She is a sob
He is a sigh
A poet is
The sun at midnight
Bright and
Burning
Hot
Alive
But cloaked in a darkness
They cannot shake
The brightest day
And the darkest night
A poet is
The human experience
A paradox
An oxymoron
So complicatedly
Simple
A poet is
A lover
Who refuses
To stop wearing their heart on their sleeve
No matter how much it bleeds
But rolls them up
So you can’t see
The blood stains
A poet
Is Poetry
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
when you bit my lip
smiled
and walked away
the bitter taste of
the cigarette that
wasn't you
your kisses
and your quick breath
the smoothness of
your skin
your body
against mine
on the dusty road
i remember
the blackness
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
punch a wall
once
twice
till all of my bones
break till
my knuckles bleed
and then
one last punch that's when
my pain
has been enough
that is what
i do
for some reason
sometimes
i wish i could say
openly
one thing it's
i can't stand your
wondrous smile
and the look
you *****
the innocent look
you hurt me
so much with that
******* look
it's one of the reasons why i love you
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for
my wife
she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again
"Hank!"
Hank won't
answer.
it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.
I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid
and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:
I love
you.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment
and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC