I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.

He always just assumed she was joking,
when he'd say he loved her more,
and she agreed.

The sting was in realizing that he could hardly love her at all,
and it would still be true.

Of all that stood by,
he alone
ran into the water, fully-clothed
on that cold February day,
to pull her (flailing wet-noodle limbs) from the water.

He alone
recognized she was not waving,
but drowning.
Coincidence they had recently
discovered that poem?

He’d heard once that Bob Dylan said something like,
“When someone is close to suicide, they don’t ask for help,
by sending family a letter in the mail.”

He’d heard,
many times before,
How dangerous it was to attempt such a thing,
but love muted those mnemonic memories,
replaced them with muscle memories
(the heart is a muscle)
and he flew, wind-like,
into the ocean.

Neither ever felt the earth under
their feet
again.

I am the caustic clarity in a thought
I am the clearest day covered in storm

I am the brittle bit of bone
that Old Men toss onto the dirt floor
in deep emerald Congo

I am the Winter

I am the glass tube sliding in
the steel cold to the plastic.

I was once something that meant something,
but you see,
I am that lovers' kiss,
that first cross-room-glance,
that needing-you-like-the-desert-needs-the-rain,
that poetic ******* cliche'

And like them,
I,
too,
have become meaningless.

Sometimes we feel a bit of pain
over things missing from our lives:

gifts,
childhood
toys,
that old silverware,
memories...

But there is a special kind of pain,
a person feels over people missing from their lives.

There is a trick;
it is not this simple,
see.

The trick is this:
Often, it is only when that person begins to come back
into our lives,
that we realize just how great,
acute,
that pain was,
and is,
and this mutes the happiness one would fully feel
at the reconnect.

Oh son, my porcelain prince, if only your eyes were flesh and not glass
you could see that these things will pass.
Oh child, my fragile leaf, if only your roots reached deeper,
you could feel that this is only a short while.
Oh little one, my broken boy, if only you would grow up slower,
slow as nature deems,
time will give you foresight -
be patient.
I say this to help you avoid stumbling over roots,
or falling under the weight
that will surely come,
and too soon it seems.

My son, my pride, my knight,
my willow branch,
you will grow strong,
but remember to bend,
and do not let them break you.
Do not break under
the weight of words
the cold of shoulders
or the pollution of popularities.

Hold to those around you,
with deeper roots,
who have grown through the rough dirt
you are pushing through.

Hold to those around you,
because we love you.

The best poems never make it to paper,
they burn up before they reach the page.

I've never liked the expression
'Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me."
I think it undermines the power of words
It's undeniable that words have an impact on people
Letters strung together can sting a person's soul
When they are spoken with a tongue used like a whip
Words evoke passion,
They inspire us,
Make our blood boil,
Horrify us,
And yes, they can hurt us
To say that words can't hurt,
Is to demean all that words do
Look at Marat,
Martin Luther,
Shakespeare,
Darwin,
Hobbes,
Freud,
Orwell,
Paine
And tell me words can't change the world
Words are what I turn to when I have nothing left
I'd rather my bones break,
That would be much better,
Than to lose my dignity,
To have a record of voices
Tell me I'm useless,
I'm stupid,
I'm fat,
I'm never good enough
Always on repeat,
Always on my mind,
Always ringing true
Maybe I'm over analytical
Maybe I care too much
About things said in the past
But here's to all the "I love you's"
All the "I hate you's"
To saying "I don't give a ****"
The pen is indeed mightier than the sword
Because your words
Are what made me turn the blade
On myself