date me. im a poet.
open yourself to my intrusion; i want to write about you.
lace these blue inked lines with pieces of you in metered rhymes and poetic prose; i wish to write about you.
will you... give me something to pen about you today?
i long to squeeze lemons of you onto a page and watch the edges curl around your bitter wetness; containing you w fail..
because you cant be held
in.
i long only to gaze at the glory of you framed in the pages of my journal
and pray this time i dont lose it in transition.

so.. again.. date me.
im a poet.
i beg of you, baby..
let me write about you?

i wont promise a collection of pretty poems
or
blossoming words of flattery.
but
i will adore you in word play;
showcasing your fault lines in all their rapture;
encouraging the world to be just as you are
because
when they read you spread across my pages they will want to write about you, too.
You think, maybe.. we could all write about you?

Youre a vibe of indescribable musing
and if i could just..
place you w all your rough edges on to these smooth lines,
I could encourage someone to read today..
even if its just you who's eyes glide across my words drinking yourself in becoming full off the high that you are.

certainly, then.. youll see how poectic ive colored you.
surely, youll demand that i write about you.
youll beg me to date you.
in response,
i'll pile high journals on journals in front of you
and youll see
all this time,
all along...
ive BEEN writing about you.

it's really something
how quickly things can change
how one poem ago
you were back
in my bed
in my heart
how one poem ago
you accidentally called me honey
in the middle
of a flirtatious conversation
and every time after that
was on purpose
if you ask me
there are no such thing
as accidents
I would tell you there is no
such thing
as coincidence
that you are only setting yourself
up
for failure
by choosing to believe
in miracles
if you asked me
I would tell you
a long time ago
many
many poems ago
I believed in love
at first sight
and
soul mates
and fate
but the truth is
these beliefs are built
on a quicksand foundation
of lust
and naivety
and sheer
stupidity
love
is the hardest part
of living
the deadliest war
to sign up for
your heart
is not a soldier
you
are not
a battleground
this love
is guerrilla warfare
that wink
this grin
those hands on my hips
these lips
on my neck
your breath
in my ear
my name
on your tongue
this
is
war
one poem ago
we were asleep
like lazy lovers
on a sunday afternoon
one poem ago
the sound of you
moaning my name
has seared itself
back into
my brain
one poem ago
I love you so
much that I say
I will never
let you go
and this morning
you are severing
your own arms
just to escape from
my grasp

Last night he was eighteen
when he fell asleep.

The darkness filled with
insubstantial events,
visions of women and war,
marriage, jobs, divorce,
disasters and recovery.

When he woke up he was 63.

Life is but a dream.

Im sorry.
This isnt fair to you, you know
Your skin still sings to me
  With memories
   Of her voice

Im beginning to learn
Even love-struck stars
  Grow pallid
In the wake of a rippling,
 Regal moon
And now im left here
Howling at grey skies

you,
desolate shadow of existence
Sexed up and used by their persistence,
You'r admirations and aspirations
Are the apple cores
Planting seeds in my belly
Despite my resistance.

“I loved you long before you loved me. It's the only thing I have you beat at, and I'll bring it up every chance I get.”*

She was sitting on the beach
wearing the tiniest bikini
staring out at the perfect Adriatic.

She sat alone, which considering
her beauty and elegance
seemed some cosmically bad joke.

Unlike myself, I approached her,
flashed my guileless 17-year-old smile,
and said hello, fully expecting
a giant older brother or even
Poseidon himself to appear
from nowhere and ****** me.

She spoke a lilting English
with an accent I could not name.
She said her name was Marisa
and she was twenty-one.

Next morning, in my two dollar room,
after an exhausting night of abandon
during which she moaned and peaked
three times, she dressed as I lay
shrivelled and worn out
as a mummified banana.

She told me she had come here
to be alone a little because
next week she must marry
an older man whom she did not love
chosen as was custom by her parents.

She said she would remember me
as the last morsel of passion
she would ever know in this world.

She kissed my forehead and left.

I had no words.

I never knew her last name
nor ever saw her again.

The Wheel spins, the particles dance,
we can never know the trajectories
that chance encounter can engender
nor what shapes the next round brings.

The next day I left for Greece
uncertain of what had even happened.

I still don't know. I never will.

But I think I may have met her again...

  ~mce

She has it all:

wit, intelligence
and beauty,
but denies them
as if to be special
is somehow
a shame.

She keeps her heart
deep within a castle:
moat, drawbridge,
walls, keep and towers
to keep hurt away.

If you want her you
must lay siege
to the fortress,
slowly break down
all obstacles,
replace them
with trust.

You must win
her by being
patient and worthy.

I am an old soldier
but my will
remains stronger
than most.

I have one
more campaign
left in me.

I will take
this citadel,
overcome
these obstacles
or break my heart
on its walls.

Defeat is not
an option where
such a prize
awaits.

"Once more into
the breach."

   ~mce

We are different. Why not?

But we are so much alike.

An aging monk, I long ago
left the importance of opinions
and the world's judgements behind.

For me, that was difficult.

First, the world beat me
to a ******, barely breathing
husk of a man.  I took many
punches; I struggled up
and learned a new way to live.

You are young and what
had to be beaten out of me
seems to come naturally to you.

Now, I take my chances
and live with the results.

All I ask of you  is a chance.

Whatever happens will happen.

Two souls that kiss
can overcome many differences
because, soul to soul,
they create their own world
outside of time and space.

Maybe not forever, but in
a mortal world, what difference?

Forever is you in my arms,
the still point in life's
hurricane, for as long as
you are content to be there.

I didn't storm your world;
you let me in. I can't win
your heart; you aren't a prize,
you are a person, a woman.

You will choose to offer it
freely or you will not.

Your life, your heart, your choice.

I am here, a man, waiting to see
how the cards get dealt and then
play the hand I am given.

I am hoping to get
the Queen of Hearts.

Here's to good cards and good luck.

  ~mce

Am I really a writer or just form some words
Do you really understand me or do I just write for the birds?
Thoughts flow through my brain all jumbled and confused
I can’t help but unscrambled them and make sense of these floating words
Bubbles form above my head
Telling stories of reality that no one else said
Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough to be on here
Sharing my stories of love, sadness and fears
So many words form into writings of my surroundings
I love sharing all of my feelings....
          Again,
Am I really a writer or
Just Wasting My
        Time....