your words ring in my ear,
the sound of your voice lingering,
waiting to cut me open at my most vulnerable.

your words are like silk,
soft and smooth,
but a bold statement.

they surround me,
wrapping and weaving themselves into my skin,
and suffocating me.

I can still hear your voice,
the accent and the commanding tones,
even though you were the gentlest guy I knew.

my ears bleed,
the ringing of your voice,
its driving me mad.

i wish i could control myself.
i wish i didn't get attached.
i wish i had never met you.

I sip on my green tea
wishing for it to cleanse me.
Wishing for it, to cleanse out the oils and the misery I consume.
Wishing for it to break down my toxins.
Wishing for it ... to cleanse the sections of myself that even I cannot reach.

Green Tea

A substance that supposedly detoxes the belly, but not strong enough to detox the soul

Not strong enough to take away my shadows, my doubt, my ego or my woes.
A drink, not strong enough to hug my spirit at its loneliest hours.
Yet, I sip
.. praying the wet herbs that tickle my tongue shall unlock the gateway, or the path, or the door... to my soul.

So I sip...
And sip...
And sip...

Swallowing it’s brew...and my tears.

I stay awake through the night
Listening to the incessant rain.
Might as well turn on the light.

Time for a trip down memory lane
All to the rain’s beat
You’ve been there, need I explain?

Down this path, I stroll with weary feet
I know the memories waiting to make me cry
Must I keep going down this street?

I want to bid the past good-bye
Rise to an unfathomed height
Reach for the blue sky

But that’s not happening, right?
I stay awake through the night.

lately i've been feeling stumped
because even my own roots do
not ground me firmly
but they want to
bury me
alive

In a world full of artists and  writers,
It’s hard not to compare
“Are the poems I write good?
What makes them different from anyone else’s out there?”

My poems don’t rhyme
At least, not all the time
And my words may not be exquisite
Hell, they’re hardly even elegant

No, my poems may not be the best
But, they do come from the heart
So who’s to say
that isn’t art?

I try to see the beauty in a rose
But it smells just like a **** to me.

My pen is filled with lovely words
That I can’t put on paper.

My heart’s aware that it’s been robbed
Of everything that’s velvet

But it beats on in vain attempt
To recognize a bluebird.
ljm