I’d rather go have fun with friends outside
Than be stuck on a screen waiting to die
Searching for the latest retweet or like
Just to find out no one cares about my life.

To the bright-eyed girl who didn't understand a thing
Not because she didn't care,
But because she didn't need to

Instead of perfume,
her mother covered herself in whiskey.
Instead of cologne,
her dad wore *****.

And it wasn't a tragedy,
it was simply normal.

Until she realized that ****** fists and slamming doors
had no place in a home.
And that maybe
just maybe
her house was never really a home.

Because ignorance is bliss.
And if you don't understand
that some things are right
and some are wrong
everything is still just okay

To the bright-eyed girl who didn't know
that her childhood was ripped away
until it was too late

With the sound of your voice you
touch my soul and I am so glad
for that touch and sometimes  I
celebrate the sound of your voice
and at other times I feel the need
to recover from it.

You can speak a world into existence
or empty life of its meaning and the
unspeakable is heard and felt when
you speak to me, and as I hear your
voice I am touched.

When you speak the energy flows
and just the sound of your voice
makes me glad to be alive and glad
that I am a man.

With your voice you banish fear,
soothe and caress challenges and
delights and when you speak the
subject does not matter but for me
the sound of your voice does.

The fascination that is you, the
mystery that is you, I find and know
in the sound of your voice and as the
sound of your voice excites  and
nurture's me I warm myself in
it as it touches my soul.

When we speak our souls resonate
and intimacy occurs and we attend
to what we love and who we love
and that is the sound of each others
voice and one another.

Should you speak to me in urgency
or despair gladly I would take
on the world for you and you know
this and  P S, I Love You
                                                  Jon York     2018

She
        Shouldn’t

Be

           Mine

But

        I’m

Glad

              She

Chose

              Me

The irony of the doubt
Of the one that came out of my mouth

Is that this head won't make flowers out of words
Or gardens out of stanzas;

That when these hands write or type
None would be so quite the hype,

That words would be just words:
They are, yes, but the irony is that it still hurts;

When I said I can't make more out of a word,
My head sabotaged me, albeit absurd:

I made flowers out of words
But, out of nowhere, it'd hurt me:

For the thorns of the rose I plucked,
From the garden I thrashed, crocked,

To the truth that the one I plucked the rose for
Would do none but to abhor;

Now I cry, knowing,
What the irony of the doubt would sing;

How I'm bound to fool myself with words,
And hurt by them, soon after;

How this heart would endlessly flutter
Over love that is destined to falter.