so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

Your words are like an explosion inside my soul,
Your touch breaks every last bone in my body,
But yet I would go to the end of the world and back to just see that smile,
If just one word would make you understand how I feel;
I would write you essays upon essays in hopes you'll understand,
My heart beats for you;
Even if you may not know it,
Whenever you come near my hands start to shake;
I forget how to breathe,
Just hold me near;
Remind me how to breathe by the taste of your lips.

It's funny, this world we live in,
Where toy dinosaurs are made of real dinosaur's bones,
Where even when others surround us we can feel so alone,
Where we feel we need to cover our souls,
Because somehow lead should be more appealing than gold

it's a little ironic
that there is something wrong with my heart
that I, this hopeless poet, has a defect
in her favorite topic, her favorite metaphor-
and that this, this, the source of her life, should fail her.

THOUGH I DON'T KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN IT,
MY ANXIETY IS LIKE A CONSTANT *** OF COLD WATER TRYING TO BOIL
AND WHEN IT GETS TO THAT POINT
I WANT TO SCREAM
UNTIL MY LUNGS TURN OUT LIKE A BALLOON BEING TOUCHED BY A PIN
BUT IN THE END, I ALWAYS REMAIN QUIET