Someone said to me once
that "you have to have empathy
to be a true poet."
     You have to have empathy
to be a true person.
I said that.

Spinning my wheels
on a long drive
next mile mark
next town
next valley
or bug splattered
windshield horizon
on my mind

Grass and trees
pass in a sleepy haze
until the thump-thump
of a pothole jars
half lidded eyes
open wide

Ahead I see
the red smear
of mangled flesh

The crow flies
just in time
as this steel
four wheel
predator bears down
on his meal

I veer left
straddle death
tires singing hymns
to the highway

They say when I die
there's a place I'll go
where every face
will be one I know.
Some call it heaven,
and I hope it's true.
But what paradise
compares to you?

I was just a lonely
little bag of bones,
but you took me with you,
gave me a home.
Each word you spoke then,
like a breath of spring -
your lovely laughters,
and the joys they bring.

You say I'm funny
for the way I feel,
the things I say,
glances I steal.
But you don't know just
what it is like
to lie beside you,
in bed at night

to feel the beating
of your precious heart,
to see you rising
at each day's start.
I'll take you with me
whenever I go
so lost is a feeling
I won't have to know.

And when I die
there's a place I'll go
where every face
will be one I know.
And I'll call it heaven.
It can be our new
little bed to lie in.
Just me and you.

Here I am,
writing poems in a rainstorm
like I'm Poe or something.
I'd honestly rather be asleep,
now and most of the time.
Don't get me wrong,
I love poetry,
and I love rain,
and also I'm not depressed, I swear.
It's just I can't really
**** anything up
when I'm asleep.
But as soon as my eyes are open
(though not really open),
I start waging war on love
like it hurt me or something.
No,
when I'm asleep
I can only dream of it.

Well, tell your brothers,
     your sisters and misters
they dont need to
     hang around my door.
My hands and feet
     are covered with blisters -
just a product of our
     little war.

     And next time you
have half a mind
     to set fire to my
Cadillac,
     just remember that
kinda behavior
     is never gonna
bring me back.
     Know that.

Yes, I believe I received
     your last message,
but I didn't care to
     hear it through.
It's just my mind
     was preoccupied
with finding ways
     to rid myself of you.

Don't get me wrong,
     we sure had our fun,
but it was much too much
     to make it last.
Now my windows and
     doors are all locked,
I only open 'em to scream
     when you drive past.

I went to the graveyard today.
Sat beside your stone,
even through the rain,
just so you didn't feel lonely
(if you can feel at all).
I began to relate recent events.
That didn't take long,
so I sang songs you loved,
songs by Johnny Cash mostly.
I swear when I said
"Because you're mine..."
your stone rang like a bell.
     Something came over me then.
A tear fell down my face
when I remembered you said
nothing as you were leaving me.
I dug into the earth in a fit of passion,
though nearly sure of what I was doing.
I looked at your bones.
Held them.
I wasn't scared and was glad
that no one saw me.
But they didnt look like you.
They weren't smiling,
singing, or anything.
So, I put them back.
Covered them up.
Didn't say a word.
    And I left you.

You might call me pathetic
     when I beg you to stay,
or when I cry after hearing
     that you've fallen out of love.
I would say I'm simply a romantic
     with inclinations toward      heartbreak.
     I would say that that is my definition of love.
     If that's the case, then I guess
I can't blame you for
     falling out of it.