How is it that you found me?
I was so well hidden under the sheets
My heart’s beat was so far and faint
That it barely echoed through time and space
Yet through the winds that blew off my skin and behind the curtains that hung over me
You found me

Hand to hand
And chest to chest
You found me

Without a map
Or GPS
You found me

Call it fait
Or call it blessed
Through the rain
And all the rest
You found me…

For love so sweet  that it crawls beneath and leaves everything powerless in defeat. Pull down the mountains and and oceans deep.
That is the love he gave to me...

My poetry is ice cold
And offer me no sympathy
Lines have no comfort between them
On top or underneath them
If words could conceal my hearts disease
Then paper would be rough and bumpy and creased
Forgive me those who put their souls on sheets
Forget what I've written like flaky Autumn leaves
That become nothing after they brown and fall from trees
Gather up my words and spread them in the wind
But, I fear that my sonnets mean nothing to the ears in which they're caught
Like paper doves, they sink in water
Mine, though they rhyme, holds no less passion than torture
For those who feel different, don't let this thought bore you
For feelings that linger will soon pass
Trains that stop, will again move fast
And like these things that never lasts
That is poetry to me, so this is my last

(F)or all the
t(o)ugh times
that (c)alled
for (u)ltimate
(s)trength...
remember
them..

Candles that burn
In the frame of a moonlit window
Runs dry and bitter
And burns out too soon
And the man that needs to see
Turns butterscotch and candy
And like a little kitten
Crawls under the blankets
For in dark rooms
Far from any mother's womb
Lives a dark race
In mind or in place
That scares muscular men from sight and space
Better then,
Candy man,
Who turns into cream and flakes
To close your eyes and sleep the dark away

Scars and scabs
Come leaking out in drips and drabs
After events that occurred  
And events that shouldn't have
Sand on soles go walking into shoes
And embed themselves there within
Shards of glass buried deep under the skin
Wiggle their way to the surface again
And when life warms to the call of the sun
We pack it all back, for morning has come
Old things get beat down until purple and plum
For newer less blue things to be squeezed under thumb
I worry about my mind and its multitude of storage rooms
Filled with undealt with boxes and musky fumes
Now stuffed to capacity
Those come leaking out too
They tare through the surfaces that have long since been plastered  
And sawed down and painted and polished afterwards
Now my body, heavy and ***** with these returning things
Sheds them part by part in painful rebirth
And after I've been made naked of these morsels in my mind
I'll pack new boxes in my empty  storage rooms from time to time
For a peaceful heart is a dozen a dime
But none is as interesting and messy as mine