When you think about a poem,
What do you hear?
The buzzing of rhymes, passing your ear?
Or do you think of words?
Lines on a page?
The timeless messages, growing wisdom with age?

Do you think of a certain one?
A song,or a rhyme?
A passage you read, about the beginning of time?

What makes a poem? Is it the words or the lines?
The message, or rhymes?
The writer? The Reader?
The sender? The receiver?

What makes a poem?
The Poet, of course.
It isn't the words, or the rhyme,
It's the voice.

That's what makes a poem,
That will stand the test of time.
If The Poet believes it,
Is that such a crime?

"if you want to make it in the world
take your shot
aim high
hit the target
don't miss your shot holly"

I have missed my shot granddad.
if only you'd known who I really was.
you probably would've hated me,

I tried suicide
Mom didn't like it that much
I'm better off dead

red is the blood that pours down his arms
red is the flush on her cheeks
red is the flower that they wear on their charms
red stains my carpet for weeks

wine and women
power hungry; driven
red controls life.

red is the heart
hurting the boy
pumping too hard and fast

red is the truck
that took them away
the world speeding past

red is hungry
red is power
red is strong.

she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave

she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together

when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world

soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies

and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash

and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow


x.

we talked about everything
and nothing at all
be it in bed
or a bathroom stall

going to sleep
staying awake
we did more
than we thought we could take

m
o
o
n

and i


he liked my poems
and i adored his
words from the heart
sealed with a kiss.

i miss his poems
the sun and the moon
our sunlets

he likes my poems
and i like him.