You are absolutely undeniably
my favorite.

I love every bit of you,
the way you feel when I
run my hands down your back, and
the unique and subtle scent you carry.

I can't get enough of the way
you make me feel and the way
you make me think even after so
long and I can always predict what
you will say.

I treasure the comfort you give me
after a long day of dealing with
people so trite and unimaginative as you.

There are many like you
but there are none that are you.
You are without a doubt
my favorite book.

I awake and the day
stretches out before me
and I wonder how I will
pass the time?

I could clean.
Less clutter means less stress
and if there is one thing I need
it's less stress.

I could work.
Due dates are fast approaching
and the truth is I do enjoy the challenge
and the feeling of satisfaction afterwards.

I could read.
Just take the day and escape
to an alternate reality where people
act with purpose and in the end
it all makes sense.

I could walk out.
Just throw this life away and find another
Variety is the spice of life and in all honestly,
I've done this all before.

But as I think and stretch
like a cat rising from a nap
my hand brushes your head
and my fingers slip through your hair.
You stir slightly, your arm subconsciously
wrapping around mine, and I know what to do.

I unplug the alarm
silence my phone
hold you close
and have midmorning dreams
of nothing but your beauty

5 minutes with you
And I am filled with
An energy I do not
Fully understand.

Though I am still young
I thought I had experienced
The full power of infatuation.
But you have set my soul
Ablaze.

The moon rises and I am
Overcome with restlessness.
How I yearn for you.
No price is too great if it
Brings you to me now.
My entire being craves
To make love to you
Like no man ever has before.

I would do away with
Every vice if it meant I could
Hold you in my arms
Kiss your neck
And see the moonlight
Reflect in your eyes.

People say I'm bitter and jaded.
This may be true but it is not
without good cause.

This attitude resonates out
from me because as good as life is,
I find myself lacking the one thing
I need to be satisfied with anything.

You

I see you around with your boy
and I try to contain myself
try to pretend that I don't care
but it's all I can do not to turn
and slam the first random
smiling soul into the floor
or spit venom in the face
of whomever dares question me.

People may think its silly
that I should want you so badly
when I could have my pick from
so many willing others
because lets face it
people pay to look this good
and it doesn't cost me a thing.

But other people are only fun
for a little while, when there's
something fun to do with them.

You are always fun during the
little time I manage to steal
from the rest of the world,
time we can spend in our own way
just you and me.

Because in these stolen hours
we do something different,
and as much as I go around
with my mask on and my claws out,
you inspire an end to the storm,

your hair shining like the sun
your eyes as clear as the sky
and like that post storm still,
I feel calm, safe, and refreshed.

But there can be only
one sun
one sky
and so I will wait
though I may not want to
until I can steal more time
and feel normal once again.

You may wonder why
I wait so long to write,
when it has long since
been knows that I would
every day.

I assure you it is not
because I am lazy,
although I can be,
but rather because
I am waiting to milk
every ounce of life
out of the day.

If I wrote you in the morning
my words would always be
be bold speaking of how
comfortable my bed is so early
and how I wish you were here with me.

If I wrote you in the afternoon
far too often I would write
in a more traditional fashion
of how I see so many people
and you are greater to me
than any of them.

If I wrote you in the evening
I would without meaning
subtly convey my weariness
towards the world and that
I long for your vibrant energy
to give me strength to start again.

But when I write you in the middle of the night,
when I feel alive of my own accord,
I can share with you the spirit
of this small fraction of life
and how it is always shifting,
constantly draggin me down
and pushing me back up
and how despite all of it,
you are the last thing I think of
so that I may ensure pleasant dreams.

I walk outside and see
no sign of the wilderness
I grew up in. No sign
of open fields and wild game.

Though many marvel at the
world we live in, I know it is
not the life meant for me.

My soul yearns to breath open air.

I can no longer bear
this civilization so consumed
with greed and capital.

I long to feel the earth
beneath my feet.
I want a reason to wipe
the sweat from my brow.

The road will be long and fraught with peril,
but that land not yet claimed calls to me
like the sun calls to the day.

To deny it
would be to spend life
un-alive.

The day has been long
but the road has an
unusual peace about it.

Lights fly past like stars
and even if I was thoughtful
enough to wish, these are
not the sort to oblige.

Home is almost upon me
and I am grateful.

As thoughts of sleep
invade my thoughts
they are interrupted.

Rubber burns
metal twists
bones break
blood spills,
and the stench of whiskey
stumbles away into the dark.

As the cold washes over me
I cannot help but to think
of you and how I wish
I could have held you one last time,

but these stars are not
the kind to oblige.

Every time the sun comes up
My mind becomes alive
With thoughts of you
As I try to focus
On some subtle facet
Of your beauty.

However, sometimes
The day holds for me
Something that sits in my head
And festers like rotting meat.
I try to ignore it but the stink
Is overwhelming and my mind
Is consumed.

I give in and try instead
To simply scrub my mind clean
So that I can begin anew tomorrow
But as I lie in bed
Ready to put today behind me
A familiar restlessness fills me
I toss and turn trying to find
a distraction that will let me sleep.

I know what I must do.

With the moon glowing
It comes to me like a fever dream.
I pick up my pen and scratch out
Today's inspiration.

It isn't perfect but
Compared to the muse
It never is.

Tomorrow will be better.

Everyday you are different
Though inherently similar
You show me something each day
That is completely new.

Whether it is as simple
As the way the light reflects
In your ever-changing eyes,
As subtle as a change
In your alluring smile,
As creative as a new thought
That bursts from your mind.

You keep me on my toes,
My pen scratching at the page,
And my adoration stronger
Than the day before

I am beaten and worn
too many things have
come undone and it seems
Fate itself is against me.
But the sun is high and
there is much that remains,
so I struggle onward.

Finally, as the last of my strength
is stripped away, it is done.
I come home and a stillness
washes over me.

I fall into bed and my head
begins to sink into
the cool soft of my pillow
but sleep does not come easy.
For tomorrow still remains
and I have not the heart
to face it.

A delicate chirp interrupts
my anxious thoughts,
I turn and check my phone,
what now will the world
throw in my face?

It is you, or rather
a mere reminder of you.
But this is all I need.
My heart pounds briefly,
a smile stretches across my face
and I slip into a
gentle,
peaceful,
sleep.

Sit

S
T
A
N
D


W      a      l     k        a    r    o     u    n       d


                          s

                                  m

                              o

                          k
                                e


Call me Ishmael. Some years ago-never mind how long
precisely-having little or no money in my purse, and
nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought
I would......

Nothing helps.
I just feel



                                                                                          alone

I never once claimed
that everything went
the way I wanted to.

I told you that I
was not ready
for what you wanted.

But I saw the look in your
eyes and knew I had to try,
because how many times
had I been told the same thing
and wanted what you want now?

As the weeks passed by
I grew accustomed to waking next to you.
I never asked for the affection
but soon I began to need it.

Looking back you laugh
saying it was just *** and
the occasional dinner.
Nothing... Just like I had wanted.

Was it really nothing?
Did the lack of title constitute
lack of meaning?

Maybe it's just been too long
since the last time
and it will be too long
till the next time but

I felt loved,
even though I know now
I wasn't.

They're just words
to you aren't they?

Is it so impossible
to see that they have meaning?

He tells her he loves her
that he would die without her
and you just spout out sounds
like you're ordering a cheeseburger.

Expand your mind for just a moment
let the character into your soul.

Have you never loved someone?
Have you never felt that you would
wither away and die without her?

Remember that feeling
that make your knees shake
your blood run cold
your voice catch in your throat
and use it.

Think back to the sparkle of her eyes
the tender touch of her hand
the angelic sound of her voice in the night,
this is that moment all over again

Let it fill you
let it consume you
let your pain
and desperation
become real once more

f I leave you with the impression
that I think you are perfect
I apologize.

As unromantic as it is
I simply know this isn't true
and like all of us you have more
baggage then we like to admit.

But one part of you I know to be perfect
is your aesthetics.

The way all of your parts
good and bad mix together
to create a person I can hardly
believe I've actually met.

Your beauty and insanity
lifelong dreams and daily desires
blend together and leave me
in the presence of somebody
unequivocally and irrefutably
real.

You exceed my maximum daily dose
of reality and although it isn't always
easy, I am only too glad to take
hit after hit.

The high is something I cannot describe.

I want to take you
by the hand and show you
everything worth seeing
in this world.

I want to take you
on a ship out to sea
so you can see the power
that rages in your eyes.

I want to take you
on a picnic beneath
the Eiffel Tower
so you can experience
the aesthetic that falls
just short of matching yours.

I want to take you
on a gondola ride in Venice
so you can sit under the stars
and hear the gentle waters
and know what I hear
every time you speak.

I want to take you
running with the bulls
so you can feel your heart
threaten to burst out of your chest
so you can feel what I feel
each time you walk into the room.

I want to take you
across the world
until I have shown you everything
so you can know first hand
the wonders of the world
and how you best them all.

I may never change the world with words.
I may never write a string of syllables  
that a high school kid will be forced to memorize.  

But I know that I must try
because the world is a wonderfully awful
brutally beautiful place and everyday
I look at something I saw yesterday
and still it shakes me.

And maybe I write too many poems
about too few different things like
women that get stuck in my head
the way poems sometimes get stuck in my pen
or... did I mention the women?

But I'm going to keep writing
about the same four things
or the same one girl
until I can read it back to myself
and instead of it reminding me of what I ment
it will show you what I saw.

Because in the end you gotta do
what you gotta do and I HAVE to do this
and I don't care how much I was
called a ***** in high school or last week.
And it doesn't matter if I meet somebody in a bar
and when I say I'm a poet they smile and walk away
and never look back.

Because I AM a poet
not because I made the choise
but because I was born this way

and before you comment on how
I'm stealing the slogan
of Mamma Monster
I'm going to say that it's not about
being gay, or the wrong color,
or being sluttier than most people like,
or being crazier than most people can handle,
it's about absolutely owning who you are,

because deep down we're all a little queer
and you can let your oddities make you invisible
or you can make them turn you into a monster
and let you be the thing that goes bump
in the middle of the day.

And if you don't like it
I apologize for this unpoetic end
but you can go **** yourself.

"Some say that time is like a river,
flowing swift and sure in once direction.
But I have seen the face of time, and I can tell you:
Time is an ocean in a storm."  -The Prince of Persia*


i lie awake wondering where the Days have gone.
so many plans for the break lie in ruin,
victims to the ravages of Time.
nothing accomplished, nothing lost.
Time stood still as the Clock ticks on.

Seasons pass like Hours and i wonder
where do they all go?
the Summer heat seemed to last Forever
but the sudden chill of Winter means Eternity
can't come Soon enough.

a Year long gone floods over me and my mind Rewinds.
what i would not have given to go back, just for a Minute,
and bask in her smile one more Time.
absorbing every wave of the Hand

the Future looms on the horizon
and i crave to run forward.
so many promises left to fulfill.

if i could just stay here.
Now
with you, just as you are
just one more Day.

Tomorrow never ends.
last Week is always waiting.
remember your Future plans
Years forgotten are ever Present.

I loved you the instant I saw you
despite the fact that I didn't know you,
which is to say that I believed completely
that you should have been a painting.

As years of class slipped past us
I met you, learned who you are
and with each day you became
less of that painting and
more of a person.

By no means perfect,
everything about you
shook me to my very core.
A five minute conversation with you
could electrify my soul after
days of all work, and no sleep.

I began as a simple infatuation
I realize that now.
It grew into so much more.

I step outside
seeking asylum from the
hustle and bustle
of a life that I'm sure
is easier than I make it.

And I realize that during
my work the world
has changed without
my knowledge or consent.

Snow has taken a place
I for so long saw as
harsh and bitter and
transformed it into something
mesmerizing.

And as my fatigue
overwhelms me
I find myself sitting
on the only bench
in a pillow of white.

The cigarette begins to burn
and I am lost
somewhere between the
smoke and the snow.

Women and restless thoughts
churn inside my head
like the only blizzard
I can't seem to ignore.

What to do with you?
It would be so easy
to just walk away.

But like the snow soaking
through my jeans
you have this persistent ability
of reminding me just how alive
I really am.

I need to get up
but all I want to do
is sit and let the bitter
chill of life creep
deeper into me.

I wish it snowed more often.

Oh baby you,
you got what I need!*

Or at least I thought you did,
because like the cigarettes I sometimes smoke
I picked you up because I needed a change of pace
and you seemed like the coolest option.

And after a while I was addicted to every bit of you
too long without a drag and my hands started to shake
and I made Oscar seem like a nice guy.

Ever focused on my fix I fought harder and harder
to keep you around
which only left the high feeling like the norm
and the norm feeling like madness.

Eventually the pain of addiction took its toll as it always does
and I swore off of you.
Still nothing every truly goes away and when I see you
I still get the itch to....
But I don't, I can't

I'm an addict and I know what you do to me and
I realize now that what I thought I needed
I only wanted
far to much to have.

I've found other ways to get that high now
ways that lift me up but that also let me down
without leaving me twitching and craving more.

Oh baby you,
you had what I wanted,
but you don't got what I need.

Before I met you
art was just a collection on pictures
I never really understood,
music was just a sound I used
to fill the spaces between conversation,
even my own poetry was just something I did
so I could look back and say I hadn't wasted my life.

But after I met you
everything made sense.

Art isn't just a pretty picture.
It's some poor fool's attempt to capture
a beauty such as yours in paint.
Music comes from when a somebody tried to make real
the sounds we all hear when you walk into the room.
As for my poetry, it is no longer my attempt to prove
I existed but instead my futile attempt to prove to the world
that you are no myth but are actually the most
spectacular woman to ever grace the earth with your existence

When I write about somebody,
making a statement about the experience,
I'm also asking a question:

Do I dare to share my half of that time with you,
with you?

Nights that meant nothing to you were so different on my end.
Like Dracula's little play thing Lucy it only took one bite
and I was yours.

Doomed to wake in the middle of the night and dream of your fangs.
Because even though it was new, and dangerous, and little bit scary
it was familiar, and oh so very good.

But that's just it, was it new and good, and scary for you?
Or was I just another late night snack?
Something to fill you up and keep you going?

If you're reading this here it won't mean anything to you,
just another poem in an endless list about her, she, and you.

But what if I gave it context, proper nouns,
wrote it down on paper with a fancy pen
and slipped it into your mailbox like a high school kid
too afraid to tell you to your face
but too hypnotized by bite marks on my neck to stop.

Would it mean something then?
Because there are marks on your neck too,
and I can still choose to drink.

Do you remember the summer,
when that Brown dusty path
lead into that forgotten wood?
Where the Green seemed so alive
it threatened to swallow you whole?
Where the Red of the flowers seemed so real
the entire day

felt like a dream?

Do you remember the flower
standing watch at the edge of the trees?
It stood in Violet defiance of all around
and you understood, and were humble.

Do you remember the sky,
that for the first time in so long
reminded you that it was Blue?
When the sun shined down
so White and pure you thought
it might just wash you away.

Do you remember the leaf,
hidden in the shadow of the canopy?
That reminded you of how even here
death's Black hand remains but
even it can have a peace about it.

Do you remember the sunflower
that just woke up to greet the world?
As it stretched its Yellow
as far as it dared
just so it could speak to you.

Do you remember the dragonfly,
that flew like everything was up to him?
The way he zipped to and fro
and then fro an to.
So quick you saw only Orange
as he blurred himself to your eyes.

Do you remember the cool
as you laid down to nap in the grass?
The Pink on your toes seemed to fit
so well amoung the wildflowers.
Where you slept for only moments
but felt refreshed like never before.

Do you remember the summer,
when that Brown dusty path
lead into that forgotten wood?
Where the Green seemed so alive
it threatened to swallow you whole?
Where the Red of the flowers seemed so real
the entire day

felt like a dream?

I could never be a poet
and also be in love.

Because love is an intimate thing.
Its two palms pressed together, ten fingers wrapped around
as we walk down an old dirt road
when the moon is gone and the stars are hidden
but I'm still so sure you can see me smile from one ear to the other.
My right hand so ready to cut itself off because it cannot be the left.

Love is when I wake disapointed because I'm alone
and then realize you've only rolled to the other side
so in one super slick motion that would leave you believing
I'm at least one quarter ninja
I move right next to you, slipping my arm into the
space underneath your neck
so I will never have to move to wake it back up
and as I'm lying there drifting off to sleep I force myself
back to reality
and kiss you softly on the shoulder
because there will come a time where I will go to sleep and not have just kissed you
but there isn't one reason in the world why that has to be now.

Love is when I'm trying to play, trying to think,
trying to teach, trying to write
and all that comes to mind are images of you,
your eyes, your smile, your hair,
that skirt you love to wear that i've seen a thousand times
and every time I have to say how good it looks because
blue is so absolutely your color.

I could never be a poet
and be in love
because love is
all those moments, thoughts, memories, and images
that are so endlessly intimate
and all I can do is spout them off
to a room full of strangers.