Pleased to Meet You

Pleased to Meet You May 2016

Do you remember?

You made me tremble
When you put those lilacs
On my lips
And called it
Love.

Something close to that.

You said that all of nature
Was giving me a kiss.

I didn't taste the sin in that.

Do you remember our love?
The word itself is pointless
But
Worth it in the end;

Like most things.

I remember those blades of grass and how they cut as sharp as lies
And you told me...

This is love.
The scars and the cuts.

It is a bedtime story before bed.
The ones where everyone winds up dead
In the end.

In the end.
You'll wind up dead.

Saying that: take that risk.

Have honor in your scars and cuts and remember: this is love

Just not all
The time.

Do you remember?
There are miracles in doing that.

Pleased to Meet You May 2016

Your pain through it

I've felt your pain
Through the truth of your bones.
The truth is though
You're not to blame.

Your black mass is a heavy burden.
It must be religion telling you
The devil is in you.
Impossible.
The devil is this world.
This beautiful place that

We

Ruined.

Pleased to Meet You May 2016

I know

Sadness is
Heavy.
It is its own heartbeat.

Apart from you
Or yours.
It has its own desires.

Pleased to Meet You May 2016

Bandit

You bare the nails that were
Your words to me.
It was only for the world within me
To see.
Backward truths and bland
Love was,
Yours,

Your tongue to mine.
Benevolent lover with the fogginess
Of your crooked lies.

Compare this to that and call it
Simile.
No like or as
Call it metaphor.
Make sure it is home.
The idea of your love
Punched my young hernia.

That is where love enters.
That is where
You
Took it from me.
Like a bandit in the brightest night.

There are no three wise men here.
They don't come to see me.
Instead, good old and wise fear
Fills my lungs until I bleed

Bleed bleed.

You bandit in the night.
A lover without a light.
You took my time and mixed it with your lies.
A bandit in the night.

Pleased to Meet You Nov 2015

It ruined me

You ruined me.
There you go
Rolling
Down from your
Mountain
Top
Towards your very own
Suicide.
You've named it Epiphany.
She's dressed to ****,
Eager to as well.
You roll
down
Down,
down,
Your mountain top
Surrounded with
Her kisses.

Your suicide,
That final scene;
It ruined me.

Pleased to Meet You Sep 2015

A poem to myself

This suicide taste funny,
with its imprint eternally
stamped
in my head.
It has the taste of an end,
my end,
and end filled with stars.

It taste like a badly cut movie,
with missing scenes.
The best ones thrown away.
Those were your best traits.
Action.

It breathes in the night sky.
I swear it's real.

This suicide mails those stamp-less letters,
postmarked to your younger self.
Where did I fail me?
It must have been those times I wasn't brave enough,
or it wasn't enough.
The pendulum of restlessness.

It must have been after the divorce I never understood.
That was and end to an endless war.
Good men died that day.

Those years of ripe maturity,
with tiny fragments still stuck to my heart.
behold the man you
see today.

It was all make believe, or clever guessing,
or a game of tag with no friends,
which makes no sense.
I could not be brave then too.

This suicide is now my confidant.
It's been with me all these years.
Every Winter: here.
Every Autumn: Here.
Every Spring: here.
Every summer: here.
It's been with me through
the oceans I've cared so little about.
Through the scenes of beauty I could not
understand.
Through everything that could not fit inside my head.
Suicide, you *******, I'm through.
this death isn't funny anymore.

*I've changed my mind.

Pleased to Meet You Sep 2015

Walk of the heart

Today my heart broke.
The pieces are everywhere.
In the trees,
The sky,

On the tip
Of your tongue.

August is the time for
Those walks in the park,

Like we used to have.

My heart lays
On the park benches
Where we almost kissed;

Before you left.

My heart slipped out of
My throat
And onto the pavement.
It’s in pieces.

Oh, pretend that you
Care.
My love suffers from malnutrition.
My skinny soul can hold
The tears no more
From lack of
A dam
And a ****.

Still,
I lived in that hurt;
The hurt that belongs to August.
There’s beauty in that.