I could write a poem about you.
It's true.

But a poem would only make you love me
more than you know how to.

I could write a poem about your eyes.
They're blue.

I could tell the world you make my day all day long.
Nights, too.

I could tell the world all about you.
The world would share my view.

I could say that your days live inside
my heart. They do.

I could write a poem about you.
It would be true. Would you?

r ~ 4/28/14

She hides her smile
behind black lipstick.
Her voice is low
and in between.
She smells of loneliness
and cigarettes.
She sings for me
when she is high.

She gets me higher
than I can go.
She takes me low
and in between.
Her heart's on fire
when she sings.
Her voice is smokey,
full of pain.

She sings of loneliness
and broken dreams.
Her dance is low
and in between.
She gets me high
and lets me down.
She kisses me
with black lipstick.

r ~ 4/29/14

It's hard to enjoy every moment
When my mind's constantly looking ahead,
Ruining any chance of me fully appreciating the present ever again.

Time is a funny thing...
Always pushing us forward,
But leaving us wishing we could stand still and keep the present close.

Is there such thing as the present?
Or does every moment come and go?
Leaving us always in the future
Never allowing us to be in control?
*jm

In the engulfing tempest rain,
No honest question I would deign.
Why dampness left another stain
Upon the rust of heavy chains?
For my heart was already slain
Confronting indifference's reign
Alongside the petty and the vane.
For this love had already lain
With the ugly and the insane.
My passion had been drained,
With my back against the cane.
The injuries made me strain.
I hobbled just to remain.
Repetition had beat the same
Until the scars became plain:
You will never love again.
You cannot wash away the pain.

I have this broken hour glass mind that is perfect at wasting time.
But every once in a while, there’s a writing in the sand.
I found this picture today and it reminded me of you, I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because I assume she has a walk like night sky, with moonlight in her heels and stardust in her footprints.
Maybe it’s because I assume she has a laugh that haunts the hallways of memories.
Maybe she leaves lipstick stains on the hearts of many men.
Or maybe if she were alive today, she would be over a hundred and twenty years old and still look as beautiful.
But I do know this
I know that the fact it’s a portrait, with nothing to distract me from her face, reminds me that women are more than what they can offer from the neck down.
The marks on her cheek remind me of goodbye kisses, the ones you never forget because they’re from people you’ll always remember.
How every strand of hair on her head seems to have a voice, maybe that’s what gives the picture its thousand words.
She isn’t smiling or frowning, she doesn’t seem happy or sad. Just plain, like it was meant to mirror peculiarity before prejudice, like the picture was taken right before the world made all its assumptions about her.
I know that the picture is black and white, not because it’s old, but because the moment lacks the complexity that comes with colour, it is just simple and uncertain.
This is how I see us my darling, uncertain of what the future holds. Maybe it is full of promise or maybe I’m just a broken hour glass, spilling sand, wasting time.