I'm liar

I'd be lying if I said I don't miss you

so much

I hate the way
we're so separated

breaks my tiny heart

you're still so beautiful

your smile is worth gold

don't do what you're told

I'm wondering

if you miss me too

I think you do

maybe that hurts me a little more than it should

not stopping here for long—
tin droplets of rain water
slivers of sun shine through
silver wood barn boards
while each suspended mote
hangs star like in still life
eyes adjust, just slow, to forms
silence is not really empty
wind moves ghostly
stable straw stiffly shuffles
startled shadows explode in sound,
muffled feathered wings, boxing
splintering spell into evening's hours

-cec

So many ships on those reefs-
taken out on maiden voyage some
others barnacled and water logged
sea warns burrowing into them
after many storm of salted dreams
gone, peasant tunes and dancing jigs
missing fancy rigging, unleashed rags
now just stare at broken ambition
lost harbors, no waiting slip's embrace
She, they, were once strong and main sailed
subdued by years of sailor's hands
with open ocean promises of land
**! thar she is come to port, past

-cec

Antarctic stares from Arizona eyes; white knuckles, heavy blue pores.
No, nothing changed you anymore.
Rapid touches to the abdomen, the sound of violins breathed in your mind
and he's not usually like this, you said, "He's actually really kind."

What didn't **** you, left you broken.
And you had misspoken, as your words slurred into tears that never fell,
after a fifth of alcohol and half a night of hell,
as you revealed that you thought without him you were nothing at all.
You whispered this
while I cried to you for the last time through a cellular call,
through an invisible, static, insurmountable wall.  
And I disagreed because I had seen it all:
heavy blues and brave bloodshot brown eyes,
"Please don't, I think there's more to you than you realize."

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.