every sign told me to stop,
every signal sent this way.
but poetry keeps writing,
and i have little say
    
every whisper that i thought
or didn't deign to hear,
i told myself i failed,
working up my fear.
    
but maybe Romeo for Juliet
like Helena from Paris,
was meant to wreak such havoc
for the woman he saw fairest.
    
and if that is what it takes,
i'll wreak the chaos til
you see me just one time.
one look from you would ****.
    
and i'd die a thousand deaths
for an equal count in looks,
just a smile, glance or gaze,
just a trickle from a brook.
    
and with your tightening of cheeks,
that like a fair wind chimes,
i could die again
a thousand or more times.

Every poem is
a family tree,
punctuation its branches,
lines its limbs,
stanzas its trunk.

and it's flanked
by the leaves
of words.

beneath its boughs,
are dead leaves,
each one marking
the words no longer.

for they are now simply
faded thoughts.

Thoughts are singular.
Emotions are -
collective.

Knowledge can only paint a portrait
with one color.
Wisdom, a hue of distinction,
but still just one.

Emotions are a spectrum;
no single one is clear.
And when feelings burst onto canvas,
only the artist can understand -
while others can stand perplexed.

I'm out of practice with these things.
I'm loving out of turn.
I can't convey my thoughts
If loving I've not learned.

I'm out of practice with these things.
A poem I should read.
A poet knows it better,
So sonnets I should heed.

I'm out of practice with these things.
Perhaps I'll write a song.
Or maybe that is risky,
If I sing it wrong.

I'm out of practice with these things.
I don't know what to do.
Nervously I'm waiting,
For a cue from you.

I'm out of practice with these things.
And so I'll practice more.
With a few small dollars
I'll practice with a *****.

I'm out of practice with these things,
But at least I got some.

Fleshy is such
a nasty word.
Like ******.

****** is a nasty word.
It's also a nasty action,
but it's one of those
rare, rare cases
where, where the word
is as bad as the action
(biologically speaking).

And if you combine the two:
Fleshy ******,
it's almost double the nasty.

It's like math.
Except gross
(biologically speaking).

What's a biologically and how does it speak?
Maybe we want our science
to speak for us
because we've run out of thoughts.

Maybe we need our experiments
to show to us
what we're afraid to depict
ourselves.
Our brains are driven toward creativity,
while our world is driven
toward tangibility
(biologically speaking).

Maybe we're just left with facts
because opinions are scarce,
and we're starving,
clawing away at the morsels of Nature
instead of the meat.

          biologically speaking.

I bet it's easy
to impress someone,
but I can't seem to do it.

Think of history,
A simple overwhelming fact
that everything that was
is "was."

And everything that "will be"
may be,
could be.

We are provided a context
that could have been a completely,
completely different
context...
thing.

And sometimes, it's easy to forget
that everything is forgotten,
which makes it hard
to impress people.

At least for me.

I heard it was easy
to impress people,
but I just can't seem to do it.