I do not wish to dream,
For dreams are illusionary life,
Peopled with phantoms of the living
Reflecting our awakened mind's
Fears, lusts, hopes.
Vanity flavours the subconscious.

There is no rest here.

When I close my eyes I pray for darkness.
I wish to escape into the black,
Silk tendrils of the lost tickle my fancy,
Easing my ever chattering mind
Into micro deaths of sweet silence.
I do not exist,
Neither do you,
Nothing.
It is here that I find comfort.

Solace in the forgetting.

I broke again today.
Mind caged behind emotions
Not of my making,
Not of my choosing.

The tempest whipped up
By foreign deities
Which reside inside
Whom do not mask their hate.

I cry out for your help
Even as I strike your hand
When you reach for me.

Yet you stand resolute
In the wake of my broken fury,
Birthing new love within me
As I find strength in numbers
For I am no longer alone.

I don't know how to love you
Yet love beats within my heart.

I cannot stay with you
Yet I cannot leave

Why do you not ask me to
Speaks volumes that you do not want to hear.

As E.E. Cummings said
'Yours are the poems I do not write'

Only because I have already spoken every word which begged to be said.

Your look as the door closed between us,

Haunts me.

Your sad eyes awaken a need within me to heal the heart which cries tears poorly hidden by the night rain.

Who left you out in the cold?
Whose harsh hands left those marks upon your skin?

Something in me wants to save you from your chosen fate;
Lean into my protective embrace and I promise you no hurt shall ever visit you again.
We both recognize that lie;
The saviour is nothing more than the precursor to the persecutor,
I would lay you upon a cross we built from your past misfortunes and misdeeds, and the understanding which thinly covers my hate.

Better I offer you nothing now but a friendly smile,
And leave you, alone, cold in the rain, waiting for the man who bruised your face,

I would batter your soul.

I sit alone
The sun beats down it's heavenly warmth,
An angels breath that does not touch me.

I sit alone
You answer my call but the miles between us cannot be measured,
In metric or imperial,
And will not be breached by our muted conversation.

I sit alone
Cardboard pizza and cola
Do little to ease the turmoil within,
I miss you,
You smile,
Your face,
Your love.

I sit alone
Even as the world sits with me.

What chance have we to know each other no matter how intimate we are when we do not take the time to know ourselves, intimately.

What cannot be found alone certainly cannot be discovered together.

The journey of two must begin with one thus though we travel together we remain in many ways be apart.

I cannot speak for you yet I can say that I do not yet know me.

You claim that you're no poet,
That you lack the gift of words,
Yet your notes convey such meaning,
Leaving me filled with the gift of love,
So I respond forget the poetry,
Pretty phrases and simple rhymes,
Continue writing as you do,
As I will love you for the rest of time.

I cannot make you feel beautiful.
Perhaps if you could for one brief moment,
With one softly drawn breath,
See yourself through me,
And behold the magic you carry within you,
As your friends,
Your family,
And the many strangers who pass you each day do,
Perhaps in that moment,
You would change your perception of yourself for an eternity,
For yours is a beauty that touches everyone,
Except you,
But perhaps through me you could come to know yourself.

The lone wolf mythology is a ego driven shield behind which hides the shy and the wounded;
I have resided in that den of pretend solitude only to rage at the overwhelming loneliness as the need for companionship screamed and beat fists from inside of my chest, the heart hammering at my ribs to be free of its proud prison.

The need for individualization and a removed identity is just another drug to poets and artists; where else to find motivation if not within our personal tragedy still wet from the drink and tears, and blood spilled from hearts never quite mended, soldiers of love who feel in a way the common man cannot, will not, for who better to put pen to paper the raw emotions of man if not those who are lost in their feelings like maggots writhing in forgotten butchered meat, wounds that will never heal yet can only be seen in the wary yet wide open eyes of the addict yearning for the next high, not for the warmth and caring that is love rather for to the hurt and the harm and the inspiration that can be found there.

I speak poetry when I dream of you as I drink a dram.
My words are poor.
I don't give a ****
Cause last I checked I'm still your man.

You don't look like I know you should; your clothes, your hair, your body and your accessories speak to a culture that I do not understand.
I'm not even sure I want to.

Before you cry hate realize that I am not speaking to the colour of your skin; pigment has zero relevance to the way you were raised, the friends you chose or who you are as you stand before me in this modern society.

The alien I find in you are the choices you've made, or rather the very few choices you've made as you've allowed the flavours of the masses to salt your very being, laying the foundation for the same row houses on each block, 'we' nothing more than automations that turn right, vote left and drive straight on into the witless death of 'our' meaningless life. Group hug.

I obviously am not talking about you; you read this poem and judge it unworthy or not and write your own birthing thoughts not yet authored, cutting yourself free from the tether of normality making the awakening of social consciousness possible.

Or perhaps I'm just another ******* on the train wearing awesome golf pants coming back from the game that takes more than it gives griping about life and those that don't live it or love it.

not lost but not found

I do not love you as Romeo loved Juliet, tragic misunderstanding, spurned by society's blind perception.

You are no angel sent from heaven above, God's promise made flesh just for me.

We are not soul mates separated by time yet brought back together by Cupid's arrow.  

I am not a frog prince whose kiss will wake you from your long aimless sleep.

Your dragons are you own, good luck slaying them.

I will not build you a tower to look down upon me from above,
Nor will I climb it in some idiotic feat to win your passing fancy.

My love for you is not some tale told by faeries to orphans to give hope of a better life, of a love for each and every one of us, tragic as it may be.

I love you, simply.

I tell myself not to message you.
What good would come?
Our paths diverted
Separate roads for separated
Souls.

Yet I see your smile when I awake
And sometimes when I'm down
Like a beacon of hope
Guiding this ship home.

But you are not home.
And I am no sailor
Tackling the elements
And winning my way.
I am drift wood
From a wreck lost way out to sea
Long, long ago
Under a listless moon
And the only witness
Drowned with me.

So I will not message
And the letter of my heart
Will remain unwritten
Floating with the wreckage
Which is me.

Some poems are not meant for public eyes to read.

Few things touch a poet more than the pure beauty of a smile newly in love,

Or the tremendous pain seen in the tear filled eyes of a heart recently broken.

I can no longer see one without recalling the other,
And in that I find my poetic doom.

The lost drown and smoke your words away
Hidden behind layers of a self-induced fog too thick to be heaven’s curtains,
Yet too thin to be effective.

I hear your whispers
Soft melodies of melancholy
Ripple down my spine
More paralyzing
Yet akin
To a car wreck
Birthed by the same vaporous spirits I used to hide behind.

Now I choose clarity.
Mindfulness
The Buddha showed the way
Is it easy to follow a path first lit over two thousand years ago?
Ask me again tomorrow.
Today those whispers like tiny devil worms sneak along
My spine delivering emotions and thoughts
Not mine.
And I am lost
Helpless as they take my mind
And defuse my spirit
And giggle as I follow Rome
Once great, forgotten, found but never resurrected.

I defy you Voice inside my mind.
I see you
I hear your whispers and acknowledge
That I am not your author.

Be wary
Be mindful
Because I too whisper
Of a love stronger than your hate.

Yours was once the voice I yearned to hear,
The face I looked for when I woke
And my favourite reason for smiling.

An addict to my phone only for checking to see if you messaged.

You don't message anymore.

How did to become reality that I no longer share every moment of my meaningless day with you?

Who speaks with you now?
Who fills your free time with mindless chatter coupled with the loving whispers of the devoted?

I don't.

I am left to wonder where we went wrong;
If love is not enough then what,
My dear,
Is the ******* point?

I can see my pain mirrored in the wet tears that fall from your shocked eyes.

Neither saw this coming,
But it was my 'strength' that ruptured the fissures of our personal issues.
Cracks allow the sun to shine through?
No; cracks are what love falls into,
Lost child in the well too deep for cries for help to be heard.

Leaving me a shell, empty of hope,
You, filled with regrets
And us just another tragic tale of love gone wrong,
But I am not Romeo and you are not Juliet
Thus we must live with our sweet parting.

It is in the night
That your sobs turn into
Moans,
Where pain gives way to
Pleasure,
As our bodies intertwine
To find the love
That our hearts
And minds
Lost.

You come in the night
Wisp of vapour
A spectre reaching out
Waking me with your tendrils touch
And the hunger within.

You're the monster from my closet
Come to haunt me again,
You wear many faces and none
Yet I know you
As I know myself.

My lust answers your need and
I stiffen even as my will melts beneath the icy flames of your ghoulish desire.
I give in, relinquish control and with it my identity,
My soul is yours to devour,
Which you do with great relish,
As we both reach again for that taste of ecstasy.

Too soon it is over,
You return to the depths beneath my bed,
Back into my closet with your fellow demons,
Mostly forgotten,
But for the smile on my face
As I slip into a sated sleep
Even as I pray
That you never visit again.

Wake up to the pounding in your head,
Whiskey and regrets make for a mean hangover.
Three Advil's, a smoothie and 45 minutes throwing weights won't fix the evil inside,
But it will allow for yet one more day,
Of this sad blemish you call life.

Suited up, don't you look nice?
You hide your weakening smile behind your Starbucks tall half sweet nonfat double shot wake the **** up latte.
Strut your stuff,
Male model martini,
Sell another lie,
Buy yourself time,
Swipe another credit card.

Don't look that homeless vagabond in the eye,
Lest you see the need there,
And feel your own, answer in kind.
Rather make a crass remark,
Throw the keys for your overpriced sports utility vehicle to the valet,
And ***** about the mayor cleaning up the streets.
You pay your taxes,
You give to charity,
You've done your part to end world poverty,
These little lines go through your soul as fast as the ******* you've snorted,
But with less effect.

Your empty voice barks all the louder to be heard,
It joins the chorus of the lost as you sidle up to the bar.
You know the keeper, you tip him so that he greets you by name,
All so you can impress the charade around you,
Master of ceremonies for a freak show that not one of you,
The cast,
Can truly see.

Now you wake beside a beautiful stranger.
Rip off her skin and peer within
The ugly you see is the demon you share,
Drown it's harpy song with more devil water,
Pierce your skin and let it ride the needle ***** high beside you,
Into your own special hell.

Do you think of me when I think of you?
Is that your smile which greets me from the steam of my morning coffee?
Is it your caress which trails along my neck as I gaze upon the ocean?
Do you see my face as you listen to your song on the radio?
Does you head turn at the sound of laughter with the expectation of finding me there?
Is you who banishes the darkness of my nightmare visits?
Is it your voice which encourages me to continue when I have fallen?
When you close your eyes, do you hear me calling?
Did you catch my scent on wind and know my yearning?
Do you miss me when you walk out that door?

Once again I sit and weep as you pretend sleep.

When the sun sets and madness comes to play.
I pray for you,
Please don't be far away.

The wolves howl as they hunt their nighttime prey,
I often ask,
Do they fear coming day?

I travel alone yet I am not lonely,
I close my eyes,
It is your smile I see.

I put these poor words to digital ink,
My sentiments;
Hello Poetry link.

I wrote a poem of love.
I wrote of you. I tried. But the words would not come.
I am not a poet.
This is not my poem of love.
Rather words written and meanings lost.
You are my poem of love.
I write you with every breath.

I am torn by the sultry and evocative desire for peace in direct opposition of the raw steely taste of my emotions felt full for being left untamed.

Do I let slip the quiet sigh as as my mind transcends and leaves you all behind, a leaf floating on the breath of the divine?

Or do I let loose the dogs of war and feel life with crystal intensity and immediacy until I am consumed in the resulting conflagration.

I do not know.

Fools fall in love
May as well pray to a unicorn
Or look for heaven under a rainbow

Your heart is a fragile vessel
Do not fill it least it burst
And leave you curled upon the kitchen floor
Tears unchecked do nothing to assuage the pain

So sit alone at the beach
In love with yourself
Don't betray it.

I think I should write more.
My head is fuzzy with the unspoken words
Of the nameless creatures whom
Spew forth nonsense and melancholy.

Purge. Now there is a word!
An emotional release not unlike
Coming to fruition.

There it is again,
Lust and *** and tulips
Not daffodils, certainly not the rose
Are you as lost as I?

Aimless spurts of feelings
Thinly covered with sheets of paper
The ink like blood, seeps through
A stain of truth that no one can see
Except you, my love.

Once upon a time
A bard told a tale so wonderful
So moving
That it was told and retold again and again
Across all nations
And in all tongues
This tale became the greatest myth
More believed in than any religion or god
It became a part of every culture
As important to our genetic make up
As any particles
As integral as breathing
Pumping through our very souls with each beat of our hearts
Yet this story's happy ending remains elusive
But such is the profound power of this yarn that men and women drive themselves to ruin yearning for its realization
And upon such an occasion are consumed by the fiery nature of the story never to be the same
This fable has a name
And it is Love.

Like bees to honey is how you draw me to you,

I become lost as you capture me in your hungry gaze even as I find myself within the universal depths of your bejewelled eyes,

And other cliche nonsensical phrases.

I love you.

As I sort through boxes of yesterday
I hear you whisper
But I do not answer
For I do not speak with spectres of plans that went awry
Or the ghosts of love not fully realized.

As I dig deeper more spirits of past disasters join the chorus of the broken hearted
But I do not add my voice to your song.
Yet when I sob I ask:
Do I cry for you?
Do I cry for them that came before you?
Or am I just crying for myself?

Question: Do I place these memories we shared on a mantel to be polished and admired?
Or do I pack them deep into a box not to be discovered until the next train wreck?

Photos and mementos are just snapshots of what might have been,
Who needs that reminder?

Where are you?
Are you sitting on the floor like me? Tears dropping unchecked as you write poor poetry?

No. I picture you sipping tea with a friend. Your laugh, always loud, resounding off the walls and finding it's way into the hearts of everyone who hears it. That is your gift.

This poem is my goodbye. It will be packed away with our other things.
Not forgotten, yet no longer a part of my life.

Goodbye.

Who is to say what is true and what is false,
Perhaps the angels who have fallen are you,
And me.

Stories and fables speak of our desires and fears,
What are the gods if not reflections of all that we find holy?
Does that not beg the question of who created who?
Is God nothing more than a combination of our eggs?
Some broken,
Never a dozen whole,
A reflection, however poor,
of our fractures beliefs.

And if we are fallen from grace and this life was deemed a sort of punishment then is it not our God given duty to rise above the suffering,
Deny the base temptations
And close the door on the face of hate?

I do not judge the fallen angels,
I count myself amongst them,
And we want to go home.

The world is dying
As we keep trying
To assimilate
To accept our fate
And drown our fears
In a stranger's tears
But we are one
We let our own blood run
When we wound
We become doomed.

Lift the veil to reveal the face beneath.

Bloodied and bruised lips,
I enjoy the taste of iron passion in your kiss.
Tears filled with too swiftly spoken words and
feelings never to be expressed well up then slip out and over,
leaving salty trails of dried up promises, of joy of pain.
Dark smears of mascara mark your otherwise flawless face.

I can read your need.
Our stories are intertwined and older then the cave paintings depicting hunter slaying prey,
and just as primal.

Sing me no sweet lullabies.
Rather pound me into the moist earth with your crescendo,
your dirge,
a harpy's cry coupled the siren's song.
My lust will answer in kind.
Rising proud and *****, a soldier standing tall, fearless, with yearning gaze searching the worlds between us, welcoming you, the enemy, more friend than foe, into a dance designed to wound,
Cupid's arrow through our heart.

The only peace we will know will be the quiet of the field when the battle is done.
The only victor the carrion crow,
a ****** of beaks to pick over our shredded skin, our false pride, our misconceptions.

It's not the bride who cries on this wedding day.
White virtue walks the aisle splendid with beauty that shines from within, sending my ghosts screaming as they are replaced with a spirit far more profound.

My knees shake as I lower myself to worship you at your alter.
Any more sacrifices and I'll be dead. I am laid bare before you, every layer pealed back, raw meat for the knife.
I await your tender kiss.

You look at me and you see an enemy.

I look at you and I see a man who needs enlightenment
But one too afraid of his god to look for it.

Your hate could be the death of me for my compassion cannot hope to compete with a god.

Yet I am here
If you need a friend.
Where is your god?

The next station is love forlorn,
Broken hearted from empty promises from the one who made you believe, in Cupid's hunt and Romeo's fight however tragic it may seem.

The next station is love returned,
You celebrate life's purpose and meaning fulfilled, the sun shines on children playing, laughter and song fills the hills and you smile in the certain knowledge that all is as it was meant to be.

The next station is loss,
Dark days loom with shadows cast by the person no longer here, the newly formed ghost cries spirit tears which stain the depths of your haunted eyes; you will never see that face again.

The next station is faith and spirituality,
Jump on and off with the regularity of hobos and with all of their thought and deliberation, flip a coin and choose your path, your plans and intentions are mere butterflies facing the cosmic storm and no 'god' will save you from life's rotten breath.

The next station is you,
A culmination of thoughts, feelings and experiences, some of which you acknowledged, most were spun by your subconscious with the greasy excellence of a politician on campaign.

Some of you love yourself, most do not; you're locked in constant battle with an inner monologue which preaches self-hate and immolation, cast out that voice as you would a demon for its only validation comes from your accepting attention.

The next stop is your freedom,
Awaken; your mind, body and soul are yours to do with as you choose, feed all three with gluttonous abandon and find a path not yet traveled, for your life and it's purpose are not the reflection of anyone who came before or will arrive after, it is yours and yours alone to discover should you brave getting off at this station.

Your heart is the echo of your loneliness, it sets the practiced flow to your poetry and the undeniable sorrow of your prose.

Your unrequited love seeks out new partners with the deranged need of a ***** looking for the next score and with the same pathetic results.
Your crash between lovers' highs may lack the sour stink of the vagabond's putrid sweat yet the addict had the good grace to hide his broken soul behind doors, however flimsy;
You would rather celebrate your fractured heart, dressing your wounds with your words as the cheap ****** dresses her bruises with makeup and glitter.
She hates her john and dreams of a better way,
You idolize your ex and yearn for his or her return some day.

Yet I think we can all agree; drugs were the best thing to ever happen to the substance abuser...

I'm lonely but not alone.
Reminds me of a song lyric
Poetry to music
My sad poem repeats again
They say it's all in your perception
Yet I'm spending another evening by myself
Dinner for two? No. But I'll eat for two.
What pleasure there is to be found in food

When I think about it, it hurts, so I don't.

See the beauty?
As the sun sets on our day?

His high intellect was a whip and a chair to keep the lion of your growing independence at bay.
Cowering child,
You roared your defiance against proud deaf ears.
Now a beast grown with a pride of your own,
Your let sound your growl,
Your angry howl,
But within that defiant song can be heard the whimper of the cub that just wanted to be heard.
Stop it.
Listen and speak softly for your voice carries and is heard.
You are not your father.
You are your own man.

Two strangers exchange eternal vows. Neither lovers yet fully born.
You were more a stranger to yourself than to her.
In you she sees a mirror spirit,
More lost than found,
Lacking an identity to call your own. Her passion, a hot storm built after a lifetime of suppression,
Is released by another man.
In this and in him she begins to find herself.
You think you lost her, yet she was never yours.
Oaths sworn by the wraiths of the beings you were yet to become are not considered binding by any council of lovers,
Lost or foresworn.
You are not her husband.
You'll place your ring on another hand.

Your eyes swore to possess her as her faery beauty woke within you the imp of desire.
Fey creatures know there's magic in *******.
Her every whispered breath was poetry as you pressed your stiff need against her back.
There was honesty between you even as you lied to yourselves,
Just one more kiss, another **** another glass of wine.
No amount of pleasure could bury the wrong.
It was not your lips she kissed goodnight,
Nor your smile which greeted her in the morn.
You were her paramour,
Her poet,
Her escape from another man.
She belongs to another man.

I'm struggling with a heaviness,
Not easily weighed
Or accepted,
Yesterday crushes me beneath failed dreams,
Our tears,
An angry ocean with a woman's name,
Yours.
Forgive me as I forgive you.
One day I know we will breath easy
As the regrets that choke soften with time.
Until then my burden grows as I add your name to the list,
An epitaph of the loving.

Take a turn at poetry
See the sky in it's endless capacity
Smell the moisture and promise in the soil of the earth
Revel in the love and beauty of the many bird calls
Dance to the song that beats for your heart
Relish the warmth of your ***** thoughts
Catch your breath as she catches hers

Shudder at the shivering heat of her touch as your mind sparks, kicks and starts like an old rusty pick up truck.

Shed tears at her loss,
soft pattering rain on the window of your soul where you hide listening to the scratch of the records as they turn out melodies fresh with the scent of the baker's hands
but lacking his warmth.

Don't hear that thunder,
Rather,
Feel it within the bones you use to brace the thin beliefs and morals you wear like bleached white skin yearning for the colour only she, your sun, can provide.

Embrace that rumble,
let it shatter those bones of learned judgments, smash your shivering fearful spine allowing brave voice to let sound the cries of the hobbled child inside.

Return to the naïveté of your birth
Blood fresh iron mist flavours your first taste of life.
In this you find true words
In this you find poetry.

I'm a bloke in a suit on a train to last year's realized dreams no more content to arrive at tomorrow than yesterday.

My mind chalk full of plans and strategies for a better me because Michael taught in an unforgettable hymn that the path to world change begins with a mirror.

Yet it is not peace or culture and religious tolerance that bubbles through the frothy brim of my troubling mind but you.

I love you woman.

What worth this life and it's lofty goals full of meaning and well being where only careful deliberation will carry us from misstep and disaster if we do not have each other to share in the glory and the gore.

Pathetic

The worm pinned beneath the claw of the morning bird,
Doomed,
No brain to realize it's peril,
Just automatic twitching
Back and forth like an equally wretched dog's tail.

The drunk homeless vagabond,
Too filthy for mere soap,
**** fights for supremacy of stench, With feces, blood and *****.
A human stain on society.
Nobody's father,
No one's son.

****.
Pull your skirt a little higher,
Her husband may not have noticed you yet,
Buy that man another round.
Where are your morals?
Lost with your self worth?
And you too stupid to comprehend that your emptiness cannot be filled by the ***** that you swallow.
Wake up wrinkled and alone,
No yoga pose is going to save you from yourself.

Me,
In your eyes when I show weakness,
Cry over veiled insult,
Admit defeat in the face of misery,
Depression.
Well I'll give you that,
What is depression anyway but a weak man's excuse to fail?

Pathetic.

I want to express my love for you,
But what can I say that hasn't been said throughout time eternal,
So I sit here in the shade on a beautiful summer day and picture your stunning smile and feel again the warmth and joy that your look infuses me with, and like a child in the front yard with a sprinkler I revel in the knowledge that your smile is meant for me, because of me, in response to the love I feel for you which emanates as heat from the very core of my being.

I guess that says it.

Misery is the wanting but inability to smile with you.

Cannot find the words when
I have nothing to say...