My couch,
Is death,
And avoidance is a second language,
Ask me do I speak it?
Conjoined twins,
Of misery and manipulation,
No calls,
Only cushions and customer's custom complaints,
From tomorrow,
The phone wont ring,
So I'll stay down this road,
Listening to headlines and headlights
Sing,
Moody music dwelling,
Where the lies and shame met in between,
Cut the cue, end the scene

The stage has been rebuilt,
We talked like teenagers,
And you told me that I've changed,
But the same,
Still that same number,
No more gap,
But your smile still kills,
Pain with palendromes,
We were here before,
And so again we,
Our fighting saying goodnight,
Street lamps in different cities,
Static.

I'm just fine,
Playing my part,
My mainstream maybe different,
But
Obsession has been overcame,
By the rising tide of a smile,
If the teleprompting signs shine through,
Meanwhiles and meditations
What can I do,
Except hope I'm reading,
The
Right
Script,

The couch,
It asks,
Where have you been?
I set down another,
chip.

People want to read good poetry
Scratch that
People want to relate to poetry
Doesn't matter if it rhymes
Or has many lines
Doesn't have to make sense
Or be the poison to God and puzzle to infinity of time of the begging and the end
There just has to be a resonance
A connection between their life and the words on any page
Good poetry
Bad poetry
There's no difference
It's just poetry

Family keep saying let go,
But I can't as we both love as so.
You were young as we met in the thrill,
Of the seaside beneath the cliff hill.

I remember the full moon and stars, as we cuddled and kissed by the cars.
I'm a believer of old,
And when the shooting star told,
We're together and bound by mars.