We’ve always
learned in school
that if you were found
to have written
something that
someone else wrote
(even unintentionally)
you would be
reprimanded.
But even then
I've always wondered;
out of the billions
how could I
possibly
be so unique?

There's so little remaining
of my affection for anything.
Even poetry now offers
it's forgiveness
for it's unfullfillment.
I've lost the patience
that carried me here.
I've grown tired of waiting
for something worth
the waiting.

There's so little remaining
of my love for living.
I've exhausted this forge
for its ceased creating.

The universe churns
and remembers little
of its former solidarity.
As gravity struggles
to collect stardust
before the void reclaims it.
Christ, but it must be so violent
and lonely there,
dependant on forces
that shape
and disfigure
on passing whims and fancies.

There's so little remaining
of my need for continuing.
When the morning is a knife
****** keenly in my side.
Before the caffeine cleanses
and imbides it's chemical veil,
to lend a false sense of purpose.
Black urgency,
coupled with a need for exceeding
the accomplishments of our fathers.

There's so little remaining
of gravity's hope for retaining.
When all it should do
is start letting us go.

-Kevin James

Kiss me where it hurts,
taste the indefinite, there
is something beautiful
in the moments that will
fade without warning.

I've been missing the part
of you that craves only me,
I'm a finely wrapped gift on
your door  — unravel me,
unravel me, I'll buy you more.

You desire the mystery,
feeding the elusive hand
that beckons you — there
are layers to my story but
you only skim the surface.

My ego is a divine thing,
you dress it well, embellish
it with swift strokes, and
pause with fascination.

There are a million ways
to tell me I look good in red
— but I like your way best.

I saw this poem you wrote
and I got my hopes up
Sky high
and then I realized
It wasn't for me
But I keep it tucked in my mind
because maybe one day
it could be

**** every hope I ever had
with your deathray eyes

But what do you do if there is nothing left to write

Lighting rod between my teeth
You are static electricity built up in the clouds
I'm just waiting for shock to set in