arrowing words,
whispering lips,
shotgun words,
freudian slips,

words as weapons.
cutting delicate hearts.
****** syllables.
bruising brains.

what power we wield,
not ever knowing,
the cost.
less often gain,
more often at great cost.

but, for the moment
of retention,
between,
careless thinking
and hurtful speakings,
push the pause.
because,
the words that have slain.
mayhaps be the ones lodged
within your brain.

What fills your mind when storm clouds flood your eyes?
Blue eyes, too
And sometimes you'll sit in exquisite stillness
And just gaze
And shadows will pass across your face
The way high flying clouds cast dark patches upon the lonely fields out west,
And I just have to look at you.
Your face is...
Achingly lovely.
That precise phrase.
When I look at you in passing, by accident,
The porcelain perfection of your skin,
The glinting depths of your eyes-
Full of secrets-
The way the light casts the shadows of your cheekbones along your jaw,
Your symmetry pierces me
And I gasp air
Like I've been hit hard
Because in a way, I have.
What is in your head?
You remind me of the sea.
Vast. Deep. Free.
Calm on the surface
And contained chaos beneath.
Brutal but unapologetically wild,
Sparkling but guarded,
And...shockingly lonely.
That is what I see in your eyes when you lounge, lithe, in that ratty old chair
And endow it with a smooth-lined grace it could never even approach if you didn't occupy it,
Arm draped,
Face dark,
Eyes brooding,
Like a sculpture that came alive one day,
Stepped off her pedestal,
And left the soaring, silent museum hall for the scathing disarray of the real world.
I wonder...
Does it disappoint?

I am falling in love
not into him, nor with anyone else.

But with how he can hide
your meanings
in a couple of left-aligned words.

But with his thoughts, his ideas
written on paper
in his awful hand-writing.

But with the songs he made me listen to,
they didn’t hurt my ears,
something else was hurt.

But with how he say my name,
like it’s his.
(Why does he do that? How?)

And to all his art,
especially the written ones.
His words can open doors to worlds
I didn’t know existed.

But I am not in love. I may be
falling for him.

The day I saw you on the mall

My heart longed for you among all

Brightened chrome and fiery red

Metallic dark turning every head



Designed in the Sun rising land        

My heart acked till you reached my hand

A year it took to make you mine

Eyes gliterring as i held your hands to mine



Day and night we rode as one

memories remain of the days gone

Rain and sun you always run

Never to fail my riding fun



When i had my brew in a bar

with patience you waited afar

In the parking lot i leave you alone

jealousy in your heart i find none



Times on the road together we fell

Times on road we rode to hell

With a heart never to cry

till your tanks run dry



As a decade passed you grew old

Rusted chrome and unsteady on road

Experts said time for you did end

To the yard how could i send



Times I laid you to rest in my home

Hoping to see the sparkling chrome

Eleven horses of pure power

laid low with love none to shower



Then came the time for you to go

A pain in tis heart never let go

Though in time I got new wheel’s two

Yet none was better than you

When you hurt me and I'm okay about it, it doesn't mean that you've taught me to be stronger, or improved my outlook, or...done anything positive, actually. If you hurt me and I don't fall apart, it only means that you were the last connection I had to my feelings, and that by cutting it off you have cut the last of my ties and sent me drifting away from everybody in my life. When I actually love you and you actually hurt me, any "okay" you see, and tell yourself you've made me strong and wise enough to achieve, is actually just a slow paralysis of the heart, a spreading numbness that, honestly, scares me more than any pain.
Heads up. The silent treatment is actually never helpful.

hopeless scrawls on dogeared paper
holding on to my paper love
folded and unfolded
again and again
the words you sent me
mean nothing now
but oh so splendid
when they did
the worn folds
and turned edges
fluffed and whiskered
simple words on a note
held for many years
and what you wrote
lay in my hands
a thousand silent
times, and perhaps
a thousand many more.