.............I found
    some           words
that                              I
can                         use
       to                 bind
            you with

Anywhere the compass may point,
It leads to a single place.
There my  hands tremble,
As thoughts accumulate into words,
Afraid it will not be enough, every time.
My guts, tighten and my heart sink deep,
Though the eyes want to tell the story,
They are afraid of someone reading it
I know it will perish- me and my poetry.
The black crow sitting on my porch,
Explains how it's vexing him.

I understand and for him, I drop the pen,
Staring at the clouds I hope for rain.

the smell of money
pass the fusion of aged oak and amber
almost leaves off a scornful stench
pretentious by virtue of their existence
but, lately, i have been so lonely
that the smell of money
subtly reeks the odour of  𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦

intransigence,
streets refusing rain,
all syllables march back
into my mouth;
i'm drowning.

as punctuation goes
there’s something intimate
about a period
so much wrapped in that little orb
endings to the left
beginnings to the right
a tiny dense anchor
between two thoughts
holding them together
keeping them apart
it has a big job
the period
I bet sometimes
it doesn’t know where it belongs