i always go to the bridge.
always the bridge.
                                                 i'm not sure why.
but every
               single
                      time
i find my feet inevitably leading me
out the door,
         across campus,
                   through the woods,
                                                          ­            and to the bridge.
i can only pray that
on the day it all falls to pieces
my feet won't lead me
                             off it . . .

That rather awkward moment
When you try to find a rhyme
So you bend over backward
Trying to keep time
And it ends up sounding forced
Even slightly trite
Like you literally sat there
All frigging night
And sweated and banged
Your head on a wall
Trying to come up with
Anything at all
That would sound like a rhyme
Because you are a poet
And you've written before
Though no one would know it . . .
There is such a thing
As a poem with no rhyme
It's called free-verse, ******* -  
You should try it sometime.

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

Let my eye
linger on you...
taking in your beauty,
your form,
tracing every curve
peak and hollow.

Let my eye
linger on you...
the color and shape
of your eyes
and the moist curve
of your lips.

Let my eye
linger on you...
your turn, your glance
lingering on me
like a deer in a headlight
caught by your eye.