There is poetry in my blood.
Some blood in my poetry, like that
Fresh from a broken heart
On a band-aid lip kissing
Old pain into fresh pleasure,

And promising truth, comfort and
Loyalty within a blizzard of rose
Petals and cotton candy dandelion,
Being easier to believe than anything
Else ever.

There's poetry in my blood. Cells
Red as new love; white cell soldiers
Devouring infectious threats; poison
Lies and painful heartless behaviour
Such as infidelity or being broken

Up with, in a bed at night; in a
Blossoming garden, or worse,
With a pen in hand, mid-love,  
Mid-poem; mid-
Heartbeat.

In wilderness, I wait for her—
Flocks of wildfowl are landing,
I watch the sun as it saunters,
Ice starts to form on cold lake.
By smoldering fire, I cannot keep
Warm, embers die in plain night,
Only dreams are comfort as I lie
And when I wake the sun is gone.

Poetry written on cave walls
Of distant planets in other galaxies
Is still comprehensible to human
Hearts.

The stars look the same
From there.

They say the American flag planted
In moon dust is nothing but a
Sun bleached white piece of cloth
By now.

All things, it seems, given enough
Time and exposure

Become requests for
Peace
In the
End.

The child draws
a lovely picture
of a house
so perfect
A mother
with a beautiful smile
A father
with presence...

But it's only
a picture,
afterall

I was never a poet
until i looked into your eyes
and saw the sun rise.