I found heaven on earth
In my room last night
All it took was one touch
And I felt myself take flight
And in my solitude  
I don't need anyone else
You may call it sin,
I call it falling in love with myself

someone asked me what my type of guy was
and I pictured, first, nerdy guys, with big glasses and messed up hair who are tall and gangly
then I pictured pixie-cut girls who are small and cute and elfin
then I saw girls in flowy skirts whose shoulders look narrow enough to fold in on themselves
then I saw hippie men with long curly hair and a love that is languid and enveloping in nature
I saw surfers, writers, musicians, not artists, no preppy boys
I saw people in black and white and I saw the change of color in your eyes
I saw people playing guitar and yelling at the top of their lungs
I saw us in a sunny beat-up car with the windows down
I saw people who'd hold my hand and then grab my ***
I saw people whose minds arched to the heavens and then somehow back to me
I saw someone on my level, an equal match, the completion of the circle
a radio signal that had a bit of static before it was united
eyes that focus and hearts that ignite
just emotional enough to deal with me
and not emotional enough to let me stay stagnant
I saw someone who would push me, break me, teach me
and I'd be pushing, breaking, and teaching right back
and we'd always be with other people
and moving constantly, improving ourselves
because we'd have independent lives and wouldn't need constant affirmation
however
we really wouldn't be complete
or completely satisfied
without each other
and our souls
would have a bungee cord
elastic
stretched between us.

Make love* is such an odd term for ***.
Why romanticize something that's already romantic?
Beautiful in itself?
If someone asked if I was a ******, I'd say,
"No, I make love everyday."
Because I do.
Making love isn't ***.
Not to me, anyway.
Making love is defined in everyday actions.
A simple "I love you".
Or another "You are so beautiful".
Even something like "I appreciate you".
Making love is spreading love.
To some, it may sound... creepy.
To others, it may make sense.
I hope it makes sense.

I can't promise you tomorrow,
but I can promise today.

It was NOT necessary for those ignorant ******* to protest today.
There was NO need for those graphic signs and mean words.
There were ******* CHILDREN seeing those signs.

People need to get their heads out of their ******* ***** and realize what women do does NOT ******* effect them.
They "****" a ******* FETUS.
A fetus who CAN'T feel anything
because their nerves haven't developed yet.
A fetus is just a bunch of CELLS.

I hate the ignorant part of the human race who think they have ******* control over others.
Get your head out of your ******* *** and realize you are a piece of trash.

I crave it,
the smell of raw earth that is fertile
and pregnant with anxiety
newborn vulnerability mixed with a ****** innocence
desire, pure and unfiltered
in its most childish and embarassing form
the smell of raw earth is what I live for
when the grass has been torn up
and all that is there is possibility
roots snaking and enticing through
fresh ground, the birthing-place
of all things alien
familiar only to other aliens
I am new
and I can smell the newness here as I fill my lungs
with that which has been written and found filled
written and done,
dirt is the ankles of the world
the calves, thighs, and what's between them
forever moving and shifting restlessly, frustrated,
rising and falling beneath the soft fur of grass,
hoping
for the grace and gifts of the gentle soft
baby leaves and sprouts
to come upon the raw earth
and take it to its highest love.

Let me
move you
like this
pen.

I can't
promise I'll
stay in
the lines.

I am fascinated by your existence
and want to take care of you
but in my caring
I must fulfill your needs
not what I want your needs to be
and my love cannot be what I want
it must be what you want-
that's what love is.
I am fascinated by your eyebrow bones
and your hips
and the way you roll your eyes
I am fascinated by how you sleep
and how you wake up
I am fascinated by your love for cartoons
and your small fingers entwined with mine
I am fascinated by all of you,
and I will write you a million poems
or swim across the ocean
or dance naked for you,
and every hair on your head is a line in my poetry
and the way your ear curves is greater than whitman,
a mind more elegant than cummings,
hands more deft than hughes;
I will write you a hundred thousand billion poems,
but that doesn't mean I can have you,
because that's not what you want-
my desires are always second to your desires,
and that's what love is.

my heart craves something
anything.
lightning, love, hate, fire...
CLEAR!
jolt me, please,
electrify my veins, I've been still way too long-
CLEAR!
the last one like cholesterol
stopping the beats and starving me of oxygen
I don't want something to clog me again-
CLEAR!
I want fresh, free-flowing blood-
CLEAR!
I'll kiss anyone if it just
starts my heart again.
Please, God, start my heart again-
CLEAR!
"oh, well... looks like it's over."
"time of death?"