i’m tired of writing these poems
tired of chasing the right words
for a feeling that never wanted to be named

tired that nothing i write
comes close to the way it felt
to love you
and lose you
and still carry it all

no stanza, no line,
no late night whisper into the void
has ever been enough

the love i have for you
deserves more than language
and yet
language is all i have

I am a broken oracle for myself.
My prophecies are all dreams in which I become lost.
My inner compass fails me as I unnaturally fall into lines too rigid to be true,
before dissipating into a fog that leaves me dazed.
When I arise I find my moments are repeating as though any future day is left perpetually pending.
All I now know is that my tomorrow is leaving itself unknown,
anonymous under a cloak of frailty.

Each of my companions are stars glittering in the midst of my troubling night.
I cast wishes on them for all good things in such absurd abundance it makes them shine as bright as the Sun itself.
I hope the kindness in their cores is rightfully returned in infinite luminosity.
There may come a day when I no longer walk along their beams,
but presently I gladly welcome them into my orbit.

Weeks without response
Has our friendship ended or
Will you soon return

Single whipping flame
Maybe that is what I am
Sparked by unknowing

You are agony itself.
You are a plague upon the Earth.
You are Pandora's opened box.
You are food rotting on the shelf.
You are the pain of giving birth.
You are an *** and an ox.

My hate for you extends as far as the North wind can take it.
Out of home,
in rain or shine.
Tumbling down hills,
and thrashing upstream.
Through traffic jams,
and past city limits.
Beside shorelines,
and under cargo ships.

You are the rocks that my happiness is repeatedly,
repeatedly,
repeatedly dashed against.