Art speaks words unheard,
   The feelings paints pictures unseen.
       It is beauty and drastic ideas combined
      A mix of pleasure and pain
      All experiences add a different taste
        Rough edges and smoothness entwined.
Touch it and fall into a dream
The artist lived and lives within.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

Why do I love you
Why do I care
You’ve destroyed me completely
Yet you call and I’m there.

I can’t quite place the feeling—
like I’ve known you forever
but still just met you.
Maybe this is what love feels like,
familiar and new at the same time,
too close and too far,
woven into everything that has ever come before,
and nothing at all.

hey, you're kind of cute
and I like your style

but are you staying in this timeline?
cause I was thinking of switching

Beneath the weight of infinite skies,

her eyes, two wells of drowning sighs.

A tear, like a wounded star, descends,

tracing the map where sorrow bends,

and love, unspoken, forever ends.

When I die, don’t look for me in the stars,
Look for me in my words.
Look for me in the books that line the shelves,
The letter “R” and the letter “E—"
And in every word you see them,
Please think of me.

Look for me where I’ve walked
And where I’ve never been.
Look for me in sadness, and I’ll be there...
But look for me in joy, too, won’t you?
Since they’re both so beautiful,
And both so true.

When I die, come look for me here;
Words won’t just disappear.