I write despairingly,
My dismantled body staring at me,
Boy I should've read the instructions,
Before assembling this shed.

I don't think I'll have an appetite for tomorrow babe,
You just make me hungrier than lunch.

When you kiss me I sip on your divine wine,
When you hug me I burn up in fires of my desires.

So I just have a wee little hunch,
I'll be more interested in your menu, than picking at my food.

Can you hold my hand so I don't fall?
Even though happiness pays me,
Like she owes me debt,
Sadness still comes a'knocking,
Looking for little bills and floor pennies.
Because I didn't put money,
In his street jam cup.
Though he'd just buy bottles of melancholy with it.

Pick up the move and room it,
No I think I'd rather zoom it,
Here he goes again,
Over thinking brain cells shrinking,
Till he can't s ell ca se  e's mis ing the le  ers.
I'll store 'em down here so they don't get lost,
puh stt puh stt puh stt
Sounds like a drum!

They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.

I try to describe the way she moves,
Though I fail to write a proper example.
So I move to painting,

Yet I just can't capture all her stunning stride,
In acrylics and canvas.

So I'll try to see if I can ever write it out again.