Think of yourself
As wonderful

Place your dreams
In the middle
And grow
Day by day

Lower a bucket
Into a well spring of hope
And draw deeply
So that in your final hour
You will be ready to journey
Into new adventures
Free from regret

Some things
Mean everything

Like being loved
For who you are
By those you love

We know what peace is
And we know how to do war
Now, let us do peace

Take time
to wrap your arm
around a child
warm against your chest
teach him to train his eyes
on falling leaves

Take time
to point your finger
toward squirrels dancing
across branches to their
nest-home perched
atop the tulip poplar
towering over the back yard

Take time
to trace a
two year old hand
outline each finger
leave living imprints
beyond mere paper
into the next
generation

Skirt so yellow and bright

Eyes blue and wide,

with lips pursed right.

“Where is your joy,” she sighs?

Cotton shows years of wear

still flows yellow,  and bright.

Her lean body craves to share

him hard and yielding tonight.

After she threw the bridal wreath

their joy spilled like carpenter’s glue.

No longer did they sample from beneath

yellow skirt and sweater taut and blue.

Her scent is a flower named dangerous,

so he struggles, pulls away; all the while

wanting his graying head to rest

upon her breast and relish the joy in her smile.

Sidereal gaze enriches casual lays beneath the shimmering firmament
Glorified passions is the indignity of benighted scars and brandished armaments
Scour with the owls proctoring over the night for signs that penetrate the tight
That ooze new light and wage an epigamic fight
Temptress like a mainlined ecstasy enlivening a heightened empathy
Our love towers above suburban muses and urban ruses
It showers with meteoric power and consummate flowers that it chooses
The misfortune of star-crossed affections
Is the serendipity of empowering but inclement afflictions
Impenetrably vast like a cavernous space
To make us tremble in insignificance at the petty rats that race
Our lambent passions erupt with paroxysms immune to an unbuttoned snooze
Oneiromancy glistens with prophetic eternities dreamed awake with inordinate *****
Playful jostles and succulent pretended jilts lionize our blessed fates
We reckon with eternity by adducing modernity at its current rate
We disavow transient objections just like gravity impounds its own weight

Depression is;

One day you wake up and decide you don't deserve to be happy.
One night you try sleeping and remember you don't deserve to live.

One day you cry in the bathroom.
One night you try to see how other people have successfully killed themselves.

One day you want to get better.
One night maybe you won't ever again.

Princess sleepyhead;
secretly death, from below.
His hand is fast like

how planets may spin.
You sit on a projectile,
unable to see

anger and fury.
A tiger yawning before
it may **** it's prey.

Unpredictable
/impossible to predict.
Quicker than a thought.

confessions from
a cerebral inkwell
hemorrhaging the
paradox of spilled
holy water blessed
in unorthodox
black lace.
||shoo.shu ||

Junkyards are cemeteries too
they're just the ones no one brings flowers to
or visits after they've said goodbye
and they are filled to the brim
with forgotten wheels and empty bodies
and I am sick of these wheelbarrow operations
and the way the mice eyes sparkle
as they wait by the mailboxes
that don't even belong to them
for love letters from the cats that will never come
because when she said "I love you"
it was a junkyard kind of goodbye that she meant