Hold me in your arms
Drown me in your kiss
I never knew that
True Love could feel like this

They tell me I'm naive
And too young too
My understanding and
My thoughts are skewed

But all I know
And all I believe
Is that someday we'll meet
And you'll run away with me

Promise me once
And promise me this
That we'll meet under the waterfall
And you'll drown me in your kiss

We're just birds with broken wings,
Even broken birds can sing,
We heal and fight and struggle more,
Just to get up off the floor.
How unfair is it to be
A broken bird with broken wings?

Worry sets in when
I've no contribution
not already conceived
into sweeter fruition
   by someone more clever
   succinct and brunette
   the picture of an artist
   in suffering and debt
Hell, even when musing
on futility
the words lumber lacking
all fluidity
   Meters much marked
   Rhymes relentlessly schemed
   Capering for couplets
   as yet still undreamed
Why bother?  I wonder
Why scribble along
and much melancholy
for one hopeful song?
   Doubts in ascendance,
   my pen digs the earth
   to China if need be
   and the end of poem's worth.

Who
Could ever
Love me more than you...
No One!

I want to go for a walk at night.

We can listen for frogs near lakes
or
crickets in meadows
or
bears in the mountains.

Cars in the city.

Then we will come across a dock on the lake
or
a patch in the meadow
or
a tree in the mountains.

My room in the city.

California isn't so far.

Kiss me.

The world isn't that big.

His touch
feels to me as stated:

CALLOUS, WARM, DANGEROUS

hand grazing mine
in a crowd

like water buffalo
to a field
or
timid mice
to weighted trap.

His touch
is hopelessly, listlessly

ELECTRIC

and my body the machine
whose lips thirst for volts.

Tell me, Mr. Milgram,
how many more
clicks
until he is in my
pants and I in his bed?

Smoke slips through his curls
in and up and down about again.

FAST AND ******

his kisses feel as they
barrage my mouth with heat.

Heat, heat, so very hot
that I can hardly
breathe.
Hands in pants
and bodies in shallow tubs.

Water feels foreign in the
hopeless intensity.

HOPELESS INTENSITY

only lasts until the player
**** on his stomach.

I lean past his shoulder
so as not to be
seen
dipping in with my
fingers and tasting his.

Sweet like honey
sans a hint of salt.

HONEY

O baby, won't you take me home?
I think I could love not loving you.