A poet is no more than a person
A mother
A daughter
A lover  
Someone needing release
Or someone needing to recover


It’s the art they create when that ball of ink or stick of led dances on the canvas they so perfectly prepared.
And when the end result and their purpose become perfectly paired.

It's raining outside
Somewhere in the depths
I feel the vibrations
Of raindrops
The plip plop
Of nature's tears

And with them
Come ghost hands
Fingers trailing
Up my sides
Scaling my skin
And then they're gone

Oh, to be alone

Shackled, and chained.
Yet,
I’ve never felt so free.
You’ve awakened this primal instinct in me.

Burned, and bruised.
Tormented, and used.
I'm yours to abuse.

I kneel,
At your feet,
Waiting for command.
Waiting for the slightest gesture granted from your hand.

I look down.
My hands in lap.
l am at your will,
Waiting for your finger’s snap.

With hair pulled back--
Gathered in your hands.

And cheeks warm--
Caressed by your voice.

Lips are wet--
Touched by yours.

Cleaning, and cooking.
Almost every day.
Folding, and preparing.
Doing whatever you say.

I'm yours;
I'm branded with your name.
I'm bonded to you,
No matter what,
And I stand unashamed.

what is it that's being divined in

the murk, in the bullish presence

of unclothed trees?

that malign secrets that can't be

kept, what inevitably slows spinning

faces?

upon which time the heart's going to

be sick, and wretch into frozen blood?

is this what you came for in answer--

what responds to a knock upon a door...

and what does not appear when opened

becomes the envy of the unborn.

to love someone is to love with your whole heart,
to recognize their flaws and accept them otherwise,
to realize that a person is a perplexing mixture of good and bad
to love is to find compatibility between the incompatible
to love is not to just admire strength but tolerate weakness
there is no one that ‘deserves’ you more
for real love you can give to anyone
anyone willing to receive it