i like the rain.
i like the sound,
the soft pitter patter;
the rumbling clouds.
The way it distracts from an arguing friend,
the drops on my forehead to cool my anger.
I like the rain.
the cool, clear air that descends upon the now-tranquil environment,
and the green it brings to the fields around me.
i like the rain.
It washes everything clean,
cleansed by nature's shower.
I like how it gives me peace
when there is non around me.

i just wanted you to hold me
and when you did,
i felt whole.
My feelings grew,
i grew obsessed.
You were my anchor,
i felt stable with you near.

Tomorrow, that's the day
I drive down
and finally
we can be close.
We can touch;
we can talk;
we can be comfortable in the gaps in between.

You are part of my life, to the point where
I find it hard to remember you
not being there.
Met when i was six, you were seven
(but only a few months older!!!)
been close ever since then
But, oh, my darling,
what if we were closer?

I want you to hold me
you make me feel whole again.
I want to make you feel
less
alone
again.
You make me believe in marriage,
and children,
and living past eighteen.
When i'm at my worst
you're my voice of reason,
saved my life at least once.
And i want to save yours.

do you need saving, my love?
Do you?
sorry,
i'm not used to this.
and neither are you,
somehow makes this
all
the
sweeter.

i want you
to
break me
with your words
with your tongue
i want you to give me all of your pain;
share it with an old, broken soul.

'want' is such a shallow word
rings of childishness and greed.

i need you to **** me
slowly, gently
let them know
it's you, as i plead
look at me here, sobbing
i need you
to give me
relief.

it's been a while since i wrote a poem.
perhaps i forgot
perhaps i got distracted
perhaps, just maybe, it got too much
I'm not used to having
a healthy coping mechanism.

depends on the definition of the individual.
The truth to me is
you,
your core essence,
what makes you
you?

I smell the smoke before i can see it,
I feel the rod before it breaks. I burn the cake before it bakes.
that's what it is to me.

I split you off before you leave
I **** myself before i die. I leave before you say goodbye.
that's what it is to me.

Grandma has no grave
In my house.
Ashes are her remains
Underneath the ground.

I saw it, once, a hand-sized metal disk
With holes as big as a one-pence coin
For plastic flowers of various faded colours and dull varieties
By which to shed a tear and moan
That what little she had is now overgrown.

Between you and me, though, she's buried somewhere deep
In Albox, Spain, in a citrus heat
Where her tree grows steady, bearing good fruit
Year after year blooming flowers of white
Strong white, bright white
All the same kind.
Her tree puts forth oranges of sweetness and pride
Not dimmed in all this time since the moment she died,
Though she's been moved, once or twice,
Her flowers still bloom
Sweet, strong, and bright.