I call off the night with a growling, thunderous appetite for affection.

Just when I think my brain may explode from overstimulation, I encounter a yearning for an uncomplicated embrace.

I am in awe of these beautiful, strange people. Magnificent spirits worthy of everything their heart desires.

With a tightly clenched jaw and throbbing eyes, I am overwhelmed with wonder. Magic comes about in an abrupt fashion.

Some may see
me as a writer;
a person who
spins words and
articulates emtotions.
But I'm not sure if
I see myself as
anything more than
a subtle manipulator.
I'll take a feeling
and it will become
a paragraph you can
see beyond farsightedness.
I'm not a seer, but God
help me if I've been
looking for my place
in the world. I'd like to
think that there is more
to my life than the
words I choose.
I've written dozens
of short stories,
and hundreds of poems.
Some say that there is
a novel within us all,
and I'm sure there is,
but that's not what I'm
after. What I'm looking
for is not a snap of the
fingers. Or a bulb
to flash. Not even a
seed to grow. What I
want is a teardrop
that falls in a lake
and creates a ripple
effect that slowly
spreads out. I want
a snowflake to hit
my tongue and not
dissolve from the heat.
Instead what I have
to give is a left hand
pushing a ball point
into paper, disrupting
the flow of the ink.

Let's make love under the night sky, Until the stars fall all over us like glitter. With the moon as our witness

i loved you the way
i believed summer
would melt,
fell into your arms
the way i could only
ever fall with you.

I open all the windows at night
and let the frigid canyon wind wrap me
like a sheet

It's never cold enough,
truthfully

There's never enough justification
to sleep next to some(one)thing
warm

It lets in all the mosquitoes
and the ******* squirrels
wake me up with their
idle chatter
each and every morning
but I like it.

The comedown's most always
(never)
worth the high
(So I'm quitting stimulants
and other people)

But then I remember
that when the music
resolves
it's almost always
worth the wait

so I think
"Just one more day,
then,
just one more beer,
just one more roll of the dice-
they're bound to come up
sixes
sometime"

I could sit
here naked in front
of this typewriter
and tell you
about how I'm the wind
about how I'm a good guy (no really)
about how I'm a ******* (really)
about how i am                            (an artist)
i am                                                                              (a martyr)
i am                                                                                                           (a fool)

But frankly I can't think of anything I am
that I really believe any more.

dear diary|
i cannot blame her forever.
i played a good part in letting myself go.
I've realised.
blaming you was easy.
blaming you was merely my way of keeping you in my life, blaming you was and still is the reason for my demise.
I've realised.

I've been falling asleep in the back of the bar lately & I am not sure which way is up and which way is down.
"He" leads me down the stairs to the parking lot and rips my dress off me like its ***** laundry... But who he is... I don't even know.

It's been long enough for me to move on and get over you but there's something in the way the light shines against my hands that makes my heart ache.

You aged like wine and I aged like moldy cheese but we never found the perfect combination to keep us together.

I've been falling asleep in bars... And the bartender told me I can't come back anymore.
"He" took me home... But where that is.... I don't even know.

I don't think we were meant to end quite yet but you took two steps back with each one of my steps forward. I leapt before I could even crawl let alone walk.

You are still perfectly unhappy and I'm still researching the meaning of life... And even though part of me doesn't want you back... The other part of me still wants one last kiss.

I've been falling asleep in bars since i returned back west & I don't know if I'm just exhausted or miserable these days... But man... I hate beer.

I like hearing my own voice.

I like its rich tone and sultry air.
Some people called it a little husky for a woman's
but squeaky voices
make people cringe.
I love the feeling of beautiful words rolling off my tongue,
creating intonations that are completely and uniquely
my own,
and re-rehearsing my free verse
so it sounds absolutely perfect
to me.

Yes,
I love hearing my own voice.
I find the greatest joy in listening to my own discourse.
But, sometimes I don't because my voice can also be my
worst enemy.

From a young age,
discrepancies arose in in my communication.
Repetition, prrrrrooooolongation, and ab-   normal stoppages
plagued my speech.
Even with hours of therapy and annunciation drills,
I still couldn't escape
from choking
on my own words.

A quiet child wants nothing more than to demand attention
by speaking boldly.
A voice w-w-worth listening to that is eager to share
hides behind the fear
of stumbling on
little t-teeny letters.
And children are the cruelest of beings.
Their critique on anything abnormal
leaves deep scars.

I wanted to read out loud in class,
be an actress, a poet.
Maybe it's because I love the sound of my own voice,
but with all of these activities revolving around it,
it is laborious to have a
stutter.