I know your every scent by now.
The way you turn, scratch and sigh when
You can't sleep while I very well could
Would be something I'd miss if

Tomorrow saw us apart.
Still, when hands soft as your innermost
Find my weather worn shoulders and
Pull my face to your chest

As if trying to drown me in woman,
I smile against your full softness with
The juvenile intensity of a new born poet;
I will write on you with my mouth's skin.

If you kiss my eyes out, I'll still read
Our joined memories with my concrete-
Torn fingers; the scars we've loved onto
Each other, braille of yesterlust.

Animal carvings; knives and chisels of the
Absence of moral illusion.
In the instant between painful pleasure
And pain, I'll be more home with you

Than in any. Your pulse is ours.
Your moan is mine.
The sweat on your back always marries
That of my chest,

And when you want me to stop,
I'm about to. I'll look at your closed eyes
And wonder again and again and again
How to get you to take this forever.

I stole you and put you in a little cage
Inside my heart.
No,
It's not a prison,
(At least I hope not)
But when you hurt,
The cage inside my heart,
It feels it.
It feels your pain
And resonates it throughout the rest of me.

It hurts.
It hurts so ******* much.
A jolt of too much bad electricity gone wrong bursting to life flowing in and out of my veins,
Fire coursing through,
Burning me inside out,
And don't even get me started on what happens on the outside.

Cause on the outside baby,
That's where it hits hardest.

It's this pain that will cause me to wail,
Toss my head back in agony,
And to scream like a banshee.

But that's beside the point.

Just...
Stay safe.
I care.
It hurts.

Walk with me through winter darkness.
Snow creaking under soles of shoes,
Stars like dust on window glass.
I gave you my glove

So you wouldn't feel cold on the hand
Holding mine.
You smile from heart to soul,
Walking with me through winter darkness.

Who needs daylight?
Any ghost would recognize love
And leave us to our sweetest selves,
Walking together through winter darkness.

Walk with me.
We have years to match
Our
Paces.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

If he had loved me,
      Maybe I could feel him now,
                    Or maybe not.