A poet must produce some
type of lust in their words

To slurp up sloppily some
light red meat juice

Details and pretty things
the strongest of foibles at hand

And on the other some amount
of certainty about the self, and
how it should be run and
perceived by others

She walks and
they watch:
a detail herself,
a pretty thing

I am a wound that
Has never been stitched,
And remain as untouchable
As a ghost--- as a wart.


(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith

Whenever someone asks
What is wrong with me,
I am tempted to
Say in response,
"..Many things.."

(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith

Guilt can compel you to
Bow before Suicide's doorsteps.
A godly man named Christ
Cannot provide me with
The luxury of redemption.

I am on my own.
The dead end sign ahead
Is inscribed with all that
I have done wrong.

(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith

No words can fully
Describe you and I.
Not one, not five.
Not an infinite amount.

Words are
Never enough.
There is always
More to be said.
A person is always
Beyond definition..


(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith