I celebrate the joys life brings
Cry through all the saddest things
Yet, throughout all these happenings
You are there
When the broken arrow stings
We still share

You still give me consolation
When I fall short of expectations
If I should lose negotiations
You hold me
In overindulgent celebrations
You scold me

When you call me to your side
I heed the call, I must abide
Our yearning seems to coincide
We're in sync
When my heart is cold inside
It's you I drink

Through the hot and through the cold
There through all the days of old
Tomorrow's journey is not yet told
I know you're there
There is no other hand to hold
My soul I bare

it doesn’t take a genius to understand grammar
“i before e, except after c”
to know the difference between
a comma
and a semicolon
but words in parentheses should not count.

books
letters
poems
songs
parentheses parentheses

used to explain something
an after thought
an “i didn’t think of this before
but i have now.”
and words in parentheses really should not count.

it does take a genius to understand people
or more specifically you
and why you did it.
(i love you)
(i’m doing this for you)
(i’m cleaning up)
(i’m better now)
words in parentheses just should not count.

Your eyes reminded me of cliche things like
endless oceans and
romantic sunsets and
smelling like your cologne.
Sweet kisses and
surprise tulips (my favorite).
Breezy days when I forget my coat
and wear yours instead.
Moonlit walks and
candlelit dinners.
But your eyes also remind me of
that
that
God, I can't even say it.
Your eyes remind me of that man.
And I know it isn't fair
but they remind me of the man who raised me
and that scares me more than you'll ever know.

‘Twas a normal Sunday morning
In the town of Maryville
No person knew what was to come
Or whom that man would ****.

Rev’rend Winters read his sermon
And preached ‘bout happiness
They heard a pop, and then a click;
A shot went through his chest.

The gunman got the bible first
The book turned to confetti
The congregation was aghast
They thought this skit was petty.

Then they learned the awful truth
Their reverend was shot dead
Two men dragged the murderer down
To ensure he had not fled.

‘Twas a tragic day in Maryville
For those who made it out
They keep those who didn’t in their prayers
And for that there is no doubt.

I called the ending to this story, you know.
After all, I am an author derived from you.
The love, then betrayal.  As if I wouldn’t understand it
All on my own.  So I knew what the last page said
Before you read it to me.  And you lied.
You pretend the hard covers keep in your secrets
And hide your past but now even I know better than to be fooled.  
Every movement you make flips the pages
Right back to where we started.  All over again.
Back to the beginning of this section until I know it by heart.  
And I raise the question, how do we end it?  
How do we begin to end it?  We get close with forewords
And bookmarks.  And even closer with anecdotes
And dedications.  But I need more.  No more action novels.  
No more thrillers, romance, sob stories or fantasies.
I need non-fiction.  Real words.  Real feelings.
Real people.

Signed,
The Daughter You’re Losing

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.