I don't have perfect hair
I'm not 6'2 & 190 pounds
I don't have bright teeth or a six pack
my eyes don't shine through a darkened room
and I'm far from photogenic
I forget more things than I remember
I have no special skills or discernable talents
my skin is pale and full of holes scars and ink
I feel uncomfortable out of place & awkward
in almost almost all social situations
I'm slightly paranoid & always afraid someone somewhere
is judging me
I rarely get anything on the first try & I often lose faith
before I accomplish what I've set out to do
I'm my own toughest critic & believe that
I'm average at best if even that
I may not be all that I'm supposed to be
but I might be everything you may never find
in someone else
so with all of my flaws faults & shortcomings
of which there are many
my heart still beats
and I can still manage
to love you all the same

Rehab for poets is not to flush words or good poetry out of your system
But to feed us more like candy
We have revolutionized the meaning of rehab
Out of etymology and dynamics
We now tell you that rehab for poets
Is for us to be an addict even more
Because enough poetry is not enough

But we do warn to avoid becoming vain or allow fame
To be your demise
Because true poets do it out of love
If you lose perspective
Its not rehab but rather you need intervention

Amy whine house sang the song
“That they want to take her to rehab and she says NO NO”
But we say yes yes
It’s not a drug of self destruction
Take it in its right dose
And you will be fine

I say readers:
Welcome to my world
Out of rehab for poets
True talents emerge
Colliding
Giving magical expressions and flooded emotions
Compiled in words, sentences, phrases and paragraphs
To become poetry.

she was a little girl once,
playing with dolls and laughing at nothing,
wearing a dress her mother picked out
as she plays pretend in the backyard.
but that was an eternity ago—
now, she’s all grown up,
playing with fire and yelling at no one,
wearing whatever she wore the night before
as she walks home from a strange bed.
eyes that were once filled with hope
look to the ground in despair
sweet lullabies have been replaced
with broken whispers and bitter lies
dreams of a prince charming evolved
into dreams of someone, anyone,
who will love her, if only for a night.
what once was loving innocence
is now painful corruption
and as she raises a glass of *****
to her pale, cursing lips, she prays (in vain)
that she could one day know the happiness
of being six years old again.

The apocalypse was coming
I could hear it in the wind
You were my own personal hell
Waiting to rip me apart
I knew from the beginning
Why didn’t I run?

You were all lies and lust
But still I held on tight
Addicted to the feeling of
Your anger on my skin
It was better to feel pain
Than to feel nothing at all

There were moons in your eyes
Your touch got me high
The whiskey on your lips
Tasted like a flash of lightning
And you set me on fire
With every lonely kiss

And in the morning, I knew
I’d be bruised and scarred
Permanent reminders of our
Confused, twisted love
They represented your cruelty
And my ignorance

Then with delusional conviction
I would tell myself that even though
You’d ripped me to pieces and
Thrown me to the ground,
I love you in a twisted way
And you love me the same

i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn

we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby

you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress

my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber

you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday

i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz

let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow

let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back

i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep

perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer

be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me

just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape

take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash

come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened

A cracked bathroom mirror,
White powdered blood shot eyes.
The reflection seems more clear.
Or so said the knives.

This one is for seduction.
Shaft chaffed by your pulled aside thong.
Your eyes plead for destruction.
Open your throat, spread out, tell me I'm wrong.

Little kitten take my hand.
Follow me to la la land.
Hold my shoulder, touch my lips.
Wipe tears from the bruises on your hips.

Pop the cork and pour some wine.
Pull the blinds, I'll cut the line.
Slow crawling as part of your ruse.
Bite my ear while I fill your tattoos.
We can be the birds and the bees.
Hang children from the trees.
Pass the whiskey, I've got the gun.
A sting of cold metal on your tongue.
Tuck away the last portion.
Hide it somewhere no on goes.
A clothes hanger abortion.
So no one ever knows.