I’d love to slice your eyes in little pieces
scatter them across night skies
so you go and glow my nights away
from the starlight in your eyes

I’d love to pluck a kiss from your lips
to plant in my garden of growing weeds
so when all fails to bloom too soon
your sweet scent is sent from your seeds

I’d love to clip the smile off your face
and toss it to the sun at morn  
so when night has lost its fight for light
I’ll have burnt your smile into the dawn.

I’d love to cut open your heart of hope
carve a heart beat out with a knife  
so if my passion is dead after I’ve bled
you may bring me back to life

anything that reflected you
from glass to a mirror
I would shine and polish
till I saw you clearer

anything that sounded like you
from a poem to a song  
I would sing and recite  
and quote you all day long

anything that resembled you
a painting, a clipping, a frame
I would keep, collect, store
and label with your name

Yes, anything
absolutely anything
that came remotely close to being you
made up my life and all I ever knew

my whole being was all of you
and you were all I became to be
It’s no wonder now without you
I spend my time in search of me

i will try to write a poem without using the moon
ignoring the language of angels and gods
of heavenly hosts and celestial beings
they seem to always take the place of the way I am really feeling
i will try to write with words you have always wanted me to use
but this time I will choose
between the white tunes and hues
and maybe you will understand me
maybe you will see
when I pull back the drapes from the poetry
with out all the shy stars and bashful butterflies
you will see,
Me.

This is the first poem I wrote after I died
I am thinking of the next line
like my life no longer depended on it

The second poem I wrote, I am searching  through words I had said and lied

By the time I finished my third poem
all I find is regret and reason to put my pen to rest, lay my papers aside
and could have just simply said
“I love you”, while I was alive

Every great poem begins with a great line
but not this poem, this poem of mine
it has its flaws and it ends with rhyme
like every poem I write, every time
But every poet can be great, I heard it said
if you write a poem, not to be scared
to be judged, or write to be read
keep it real, raw and great in your head

I am not afraid
to send you my ❤️ in a text
if you ignore or delete
it is not the one in my chest

that is for one and my only
it will not go to waste
like the ❤️ in this message
I can copy and paste

so if by chance you reply
with a real kiss
without an emoji, you win
my real heart, like this

I was short of a dream
walking along a quiet stream
by a salty shore of pain unseen
people asked, “Where have you been ?”

My eyes red, through things I reap
I have drunk the sting of tears I weep
and drowned my soul in shallow deep
cried out my heart in silent sleep

None to hear or heal my pain
I kept it hidden inside a grain
with roots thick through seasons of rain
twisting branches upon barren plain

Till I cried no more, red eyes can’t see
and  lay myself beneath this tree
budding bitterness as bitter can be
I fed off its fruits and buried me