...tick, tick, ticking, aloud, whilst silently brutal,
in it's cadence, rhythmically severe, and futile.
Pounding out these infinitely deviating days,
seeping through this blurry persistent haze.
With rhythm matched to the human heart,
in it's seconds, the years all come apart.

Ravaging alike, flesh and fragile bone,
endless, ethereal, always ticking drone,
leads men to dust, metered without power,

...tick, tick, ticking out these minutes and hours.
A continuous knock at our existence's door,
til' it will cease to knock, forever more.

We all leave in a darkling, of seconds quick,
silently redundant, it marches on, tick, tick, tick...

You asked me to write
a poem that killed
all the parts of you
that make you love yourself less.
But darling, I don't
know if anyone's told you:
The things that make you
afraid to show yourself
make me love you
all the more.
And you may talk
about how much you hate
the bumps and ridges
splashed across your skin,
but you also talk
about how much you love
the mountains in Colorado.
Do you think that the earth
has ever cared
that it has drier parts
or areas with a little more texture?
Do you think that Nature
ever wanted to cover up
the parts of her that weren't perfectly smooth?
If the water stayed still,
and never rose or fell
the oceans wouldnt be quite so breathtaking
because waves would never crash.
And you might think you're covered in tsunamis,
disaster zones left in the debris of your disease,
but don't ever tell me
that a home in that aftermath
isn't still a home.
Because with or without the water damage,
the part that makes it important
is the things on the inside—
and no, I'm not referring
to things in a home anymore.
Now I mean your heart,
now I mean your passions and your past
and ever single word
written in the story of you.
So darling, you might tell me
that you hate the bumps on your skin,
but there is something amazing
spelled out in Braille
written on just the outside cover
of one of the greatest stories I will ever know.
The thing about Braille like yours is that
it can open the eyes of a blind man
without even needing any magic.
And the thing about book covers is
that you'll never really know
how much you love a book
based on the words on the outsides of it.
But darling.
I need you know know
I've read you cover to cover
and I absolutely think
your story is one of the most beautiful ones I know.
With or without the tsunamis or Braille.

my heart palpitates
and my head hammers
and I can't feel a thing
when my toes
(ice cold and stiff leads)
curl for comfort
but grasp thin air
in the worn flannel sheets

winter is here
and the sun is still there
but it will no doubt hide away
like the coward it is
and make way
for the
ever-sprinkling
rain