I've never been to Poughkeepsie
But that's never stopped me
From saying it all of the time

It runs fun off the tongue
Here try yourself some
As you read it inside of this rhyme

I hear that Poughkeepsie
Is above New York city
Not too far as the crow flies

So won't you say Poughkeepsie with me
Like run away gypsies
From Poughkeepsie having the time of our lives

You'll learn to love too much
when smiles turn to distant glances;
as distant as the galaxies
she'd used to point to and say
'that means you and me':
speckled and splattered
across your milky way of
coordinated highs and byes.

You'll learn to love too much
when the words you seep
are dulled to a different sleep;
one that used to put your
fleshed-whole-soul to bed,
but now keeps you up
regretting what was never said.

And when you hallucinate,
to escape the bronze lonerism,
you may will yourself to
a golden-childlike-aura,
believing you are brand new
and are never blue, because
the love you splurged
can never hurt you or
never be enough.

today my gums bled when i brushed my teeth,
and i thought of making some metaphor
about how efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
but no.
it was just blood.

to call a rose — or torn gums — by any other name
is to silence the initial sting,
but it still ends up hurting more in the end.
it always does.
lying always does.

and if all i have are my words,
what am i if my words are lies?

what am i if i cannot be honest?

a bad writer, perhaps.
but trying.
i am also trying.

there are some days when the blood looks
a little less like words on a page,
and simply a little more like red,
and i am hopeful.

yet still i know
that efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
and red is a ***** to clean out.

(a.m.)

The young receptionist
suddenly crossed her legs
behind the window
of the waiting room of my love,
smacked her gum
and said promise not to leave,
always come back if you do,
even if we give you bad news
for the rest of your life.

When you write the wrong words
don't erase them entirely

Instead,
scribble above them
and below them
the alternate spelling
and better-fitting synonyms

Sometimes you don't need a clean slate
You need the slate that carries pain and blood
Hate and love
Memories and regrets

What will one be
without mistakes
if not a blank page
with no name

Some days,
I can't write poetry

When my thoughts are weights
my fingers cannot carry
and my tears are curtains
that keep blinding me

When my breath is a shallow sigh
and my lungs cannot wait
When my words are too sharp
For my tongue to articulate

When everything makes sense
but nothing does