Amber embers cascade
Free falling towards hard pine
Burning sangria of love failed
Sipped sullenly thru disbelievers lips
This is the last time spent beneath ashen skies

It was a national day
I pieced myself together
From remains of melancholia  
You asked about the weather
I said it looked like a tornado
I'm spinning into a dreary dream
You laughed the way roses wilt away
And took another sip from a broken glass of wine

I watched the garden untangle itself
In the breeze of an April's December
Hanging holiday lights with whiskey breath
Your hair tangled in knots
Like bows on unopened presents
I remember the shade of Crimson
That you left across the white picket fence
When the rain poured and tried to wash it all away

There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight
and all of them
making me sad,

they're all of them
thumping on tubs tonight
and waving
American flags,

and it's not so much
the waving I mind,
or the sound
of tubs being thumped,

it's more the thought
that human kind
will thump them
for someone like Trump..

there's an art to a sort of despair
that does not care
so much

be still
it'll

cool pools of red
n fetch your trusty bones
it lets you bare something realer
no matter the shadows of then

yuh know
it won't ******* **** you
to have nothing to say sometimes
except a knowing look or glance

blackbird eyes me up from its wire
sez im aright
sez i can fly higher
sez there's no period at the end
only a halfhearted comma

but i dunno what for

blackbird hops over
makes room for another
makes the saddest caw you ever did hear
then dashes off to lick the sky clear
till eleven shades of bluewhite appear

but i dunno im not sure anymore

this is the part where i carve
one little hole in my thoughts
watch the me breathe its last breath
watch the i beady turn tor

Friends, strangers, empty-men. Lend me your fears...
People ask us why we keep these pages. Why we cling to these words. Why we hold on to the pain that we felt in these snapshot moments of time.
The answer may not be simple, but the real truths seldom are; we are holding on to the hopes that kept us going in the darkness.
We all pen our words to express our deepest selves and to expose our darkest corners in the hopes that one day they will help someone. And secretly, we hope they will save us.
The following poems were written for my daughter. Today, she turns six, and, while I am still trying to live my life in her absence, I hold strong to the hope that one day she will read the words on these obscure pages and know that I have loved her more than life itself from the first time that I held her tiny frame in my arms. And that the same tiny frame has continued to make my world spin round and kept the garden of my eyes damp through the droughts of longing.
Maybe, one day, she will stumble upon these verses and know that I was thinking about her. Know that my heart has been with her, always. These words were not written to make me feel better, except they might make her feel better. Maybe one day, these words will keep her.
Happy Birthday, my sweet angel. These simple words are only for you. Blow out your candles and may all of your dreams come true in time...

I have intentionally tried to fill the hole inside myself that your smile holds, my sweetest Angel. For that, I am ashamed. But there has been only the feeling of emptiness residing in that cavern since last I looked upon your smiling face and held you close to my heart.
The sun has risen and set, the seas have ebbed and flowed, the winds have blown, hither and yon. Yet, still I stand, unmoving through all of it, for the pain of not having your tiny hand in mine has left me cold, battered by the waves and fossilized by the sands carried upon the winds.
My eyes have withered from too many unhappy tears and nowhere near enough tears of joy, made all the more optically diuretic by my inability to look upon your face as you run and play and sleep and dream.
I am sorry, my truest of Loves, my Only, that I have chosen to ignore these feelings of longingness for so long. I could touch the pen to paper a million times, writing odes to your face and sonnets to your smile, but the distance that I feel has forced me to lull my heart into a coma. I have intentionally medicated my heart in an attempt to stop feeling (to stop all feeling), yet I cannot.
I feel the sunshine on my face and I pine to see the sun’s rays dwarfed by the radiance of your dwarven smile.
I feel my heart hang so low and wish against hope that I could pick you up while you raise me.
My soul cries out to replace you, yet my heart is merely attempting to survive. My soul screams for only you and the chance (nay, privilege) to shield you from the fears that cause you to scream in the middle of the night.
Why have I chosen to harden my heart, my Love? Why have I allowed myself to stifle my screams, when in all truthfulness, I only dream of easing your own?