Some people are born with tornadoes in their lives,
but constellations in their eyes. Other people are born with stars at their feet, but their souls are lost at sea.

Poetry doesn't have to ryhme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn't.

She slept with flowers in her hair,
enclosing starlight in weary eyes;
Dreaming of yesteryear
and all she once left behind.

For life is continuous as long as they wait to be read
these inked paths opening into the future, page after page,
every book Its own receding horizon. And I hold them, one in each hand,
a curious ballast weighting me here to the earth.

If you close this book,
one page will touch the page across,
a word will touch another word.
Just think that kiss across the page,
how clenched It is and all we say is,
and deep,
What you say, and I say, x-ray remarks jumbled at once.
We don't mean things just by one,
but give and take.
Your eyes, my lips, your ears, my heart.
This book takes them, to press to, to keep.
Now start.

So Plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

I'll bring the gasoline
You bring the flame
I'm a Pyromanic, baby
So set my heart ablaze.