Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

You didn't love me
I was a burning building
And you were just looking
For something
To light your cigarette

to read a book
is to close a book
page after page...

lips sharp that cut deep,
within ones soul ,
the wounds of solaces
his words so spoken
softly with taste
of his kisses that
blades my emission
to the phrase of
his seduction ,
he prunes deep

I'm not sure
I'll ever be
Enough to feel
That I am me

I'm not sure
I'll ever have
The confidence
To say I am

But maybe I
Can be enough
That when you look
You see enough

under the night sky
with the lights high
drop your guard
and let the world see
this amazing bare soul of yours
for once don't be afraid
of the sunshine that you'll feel
for this soul
your soul
has yet so much to be