How many ****** Valentine's poems will I
be forced to endure -
young love
lost love
ill-begotten love -
likened to that of a blooming red rose
thorns and all -
"Oh! my passion burns bright
like the flames in my *****!"

Much too cliche, I think
as I sit down to write my own
and sign it
"Yours Always".

I used to love these dreary, gray days
they'd lift my spirits
out of the muddy trenches
and straight through No-Man's-Land.

But today
gas
    is
      approaching
yellow and lurching
choking -
soldiers of the mind engulfed by
a creeping monstrosity.

The screams -
guttural like a raven's croak -
are unbearable
I was not ready for this.
I was too soft
we're all too weak.

It's a wonder
that there
is
anyone
left.

The angel, Azrael,
came unto me -
he'd been drunk -
and showed me the true meaning of life

was inside of my glass:
"Swirling and burning;
a sour taste
in the back of your throat.
Something to sip wearily,
or gulp down in
devilish earnest. "

But of all things
the glass would empty
and the angel
would close His book
on us all.

Ragged dove of golden locks,
kept hidden from the world,
when caged away
how can you say
you prefer your freedom withhold?

I offer you my open hand
to free you from this prison,
knowing all too well
you've chosen this hell
for as long as your years tick on.

Run away those years did,
giving me much time to think
of why you've chosen
to stay beholden
under a heavy, metal lid.

I fear, to my dismay
after believing you a fool -
I have discovered
          You are better kept away.

The Clock strikes nine;
Breakfast time for The Family –
They join at the table,
Talking, laughing, feeling divine.

Once finished outside they go,
to share their happiness with the world,
ever smiling,
without care nor woe.

The Clock strikes noon,
The Family joins at the table and
smile lopsided, empty,
Hesitant chuckling and a love lost too soon.

The rest of the day
Is spent together
walking a few more paces
away from eachother.

The Clock strikes six,
for dinner, to the table they arrive-
No voices, no giggling, no smiles,
all with the knowledge their family can’t be fixed

Now parents retreat to separate beds,
and children flee upstairs,
ever present is the feeling:
The Family is Dead

I saw a girl today -
who I used to know -
she killed herself
just a year ago.

Whiskey in a tea cup
Porcelain and wild
Blonde and dark
She's running me amok

She swept through my life like a
tempest
Whirling and screaming and
Throwing dishes, crying, swearing -
All the things those storms do
to make you never forget

She'd destroy my home
And I'd take cover
Cursing her and that infernal
Wildness

When it stops
And the rain quits pouring
I'd look to the sky,
hoping it would all happen
Again.

One night when we were sweaty
and exhausted
I claimed that the sun rose from your *******
and set between your legs
"You sound just like a poet," you crooned
What do you know about poetry?
"Nothing, but I know you"
You don't know me for ****. No one knows
each other.
Just what they're allowed to see. I could
write you
a sonnet
beautiful and verbose
and still hate every fiber of you
"And I could hate you
and your talking,
but ******* every night"

Fair enough, i thought.
You could.

Everyday I wish to disappear,
away from You,
away from here.

It too is true
there is no better,
than a certain You
Who shall hold My heart forever.

If you were here
for just a while
                   or a few,
that feeling ne’er could disappear.

But until that day
My heart stays buried,
                   boxed away,
in My own unruly cemetery.

Say it plainly!
Say it quick!
I dare not move nor miss
those tender words
that pleasant kiss.

Say it now!
Say it please.
I’ve worshiped for years,
my eyes weary,
filled with tears.

I do not know
how long I wait,
within my grave,
I hold to faith.

Whisper these words
In my ear,
Say it soon!
Say it here!
I dare not move
always fearing -
never gleaning
Your plainest words of love.

What has the world become
when a projection
of a cat drinking milk
is labeled ART -
is of high enough importance to be thrown
into a museum,
next to Matisse no less!
We've lost our way when there are folks out there -
decent, intelligent people -
working on masterpieces
that will never see
the light
of day
because you
are stuck
reading my obnoxious dribble -
or staring at a room filled
with sand.

In some way,

behind closed doors,

We are beautiful

And We bloom like flowers

In the dark of night,

but the sun rises

as it always does 
and we wilt and 
drop

like leaves in Autumn

desperately awaiting

our pitch black Spring.

Lost on a rickety float
amidst a sea
of friends and strangers alike,
battered constant,
time loses meaning.
All that exists -
the crashing of waves.

On we float and bob
and sink
and consider ourselves lucky
just for not having drowned
in the crashing of waves.

We are stuck
treading alone,
having no one - yet everyone
to hold onto through

The crashing of waves

has corroded my mind filling
the crooks and crevices
of a once pure life -
So I drown, finally
under the crashing of waves.

Life
so delicate,
short,
what's the point?

We live, die
suffer, hurt
and why?

To love?
I cannot love
for I loved
too many.

To laugh?
I do not laugh
for I laughed
too often
and lost it all.

Her hair was golden
and she blew beauty
out of the water
and I met Her alone
somewhere,
some place,
who knows?
But I fell like a dove
with clipped
wings, into
the expanse of Her.

Let me drown.

My words are pregnant
and the water's just broken

I'm wasted and
you can taste it

You used to love
that taste

and I used to
love you