As the sun rises, I remain
dreaming of living again.
Hoping to move beyond the pain.
Laying with a childlike hope
of escaping this slippery *****.

I dream of waking up
to a place full of grace:
Where rivers flow both ways.
And where I get to see your face:
Glowing with happiness.

By the vastness of the sea I plead:
Oh flower of May, do not go away.
But sow your seed right here,
in the safety of my soft clay.
I promise, it will endure
more than a winters day.

And surely I know that the heart is a fickle thing.
It constantly desires what's beyond its reach,
and desire itself is known for its beseech.
Like the sea: Rivers may flow into it,
and rain may pour down.
Yet no true satisfaction
will ever be found
on this ground.

But it's within the glaciers of my soul I am bound to you.
And the soul is unchanging, eternal and true.
It's what gives its cup, the heart, its color.
And what gives your eyes their splendor.
And it's the might in the lion's roar.
It's the very core of our being.
It is the seeing.

But if you should come to doubt my sincerity.
Then let me share with you, my clarity:
I know that the die has been tossed,
Rubicon has already been crossed.

The door back is long lost.
Its key has been flung into a sea
whose width is like the width of life,
whose depth is like the depths of death.

And this was done at my soul's own behest.
Moreover, I was not the only doer, we were three.
But only those who can truly see will agree with me,
regarding the Vastness of the Sea.

Oriental poems
whet my muse's appetites;
true amuse bouchés.

Bumblebee senryu;
stubby, plump in the middle,
stinger at the end.

The truly honest are the most brave.
They have us beat, with nothing to show for it.
These pumped up hearts always try and
escape. We always die, die, die.

Those unable to preach the only word they know.
Those unwritten notes live in our hearts;
never on paper: That is the only death
that leaves an unwilling imprint in our souls.

Of course, death does not care for us.
It waits, like a statue waiting for its artist to return.
Patiently, hopeful that this night the moon forgets
to shine as bright as suicide in July.

Death, in all its unknown forms;
is in her voice, in his unanswered request for
another chance. That is the death I know.
It is the one that needs to repent.

Death is the transformation that will not disappoint.
It is clock work, from boy to man.
Girl to woman:
It is puberty at fifteen.

There's just something about Fall.
Trees become naked and leaves
changing colors, it's just beautiful.
Perfect weather to wander
around the city and admire
my surroundings.
Feeling inspired and closing my
eyes and taking a deep breath
and inhaling all the fresh air.
Somehow remembering that
perfect moment with him
we walked around a Creek
and well long story short
he asked to kiss me and we
did. Talk about perfect timing,
the sun was going down and
the skies were pink with cotton
candy clouds. He's long gone
now, but he still creeps up on my mind once in a while.

The last time you said 'I love you' you breathed it into my mouth and it tasted like gasoline and razor blades. You used to write poetry sititng next to me and I swear the sound of your pen hitting your notebook was my heartbeat. We haven't spoken in twenty-seven days but your words still cut me like butterfly knives. We once went to a butterfly garden and I told you that your words remind me of one, a butterfly; so delicate and beautiful, so different with wings just waiting to take you to better places, more beautiful places. Soon your wings morphed into blades so sharp you couldn't speak without cutting me. I know I have to let you go but your smell is trapped in the molecules of my blankets and you forgot to take back the hat you let me wear the night we smoked on the fire escape after we didn't sleep for days. You've become a part of me. My mom used to tell me to be careful of how I attached myself to people and she warned me to never lose myself to anyone but you snuck into my veins and became my 3 AM coffee and the cigarette I smoke on my 10 minute break from work. I don't know how you snuck into my veins I wanted to listen to my mom but I couldn't help it; the second I saw the colors blending together in your irises I was your's, but you aren't mine and your wings have flown you to better places, more beautiful places with people who you can actually love and I'm here with weights tying my body down using your favorite coffee to try and defrost the frozen veins you left me with.