My Mask Has Been Shredded It's The Ashes On My Grave,
My Heart Has Become My Image, My Face,
That's All They See, That's All I Show,
Love Is All I Know,
Winters Are Lonely , They Sure Are Cold,
In A Uk Threaded Coat,
With Valerie To Hold,
On A Bench In Blizzard Snow,
Where Are You,
Where Did You Go,
Your Looking For Me,
Please Adore Me, I Hope So,
I Know Your Close,
I Smell Your Rose,
The Sand I Stand On, Imprints Of Your Toes,
Were Together Now,
And Storms Birth A Play,
Distance Is Missing,
In Nature We Lay,
For Ever Immortal,
Vampires Way

I am ****** in the head
will you still love me?









True love
Knows no limits

I adore the way the
Presence of a toddler; little

Diaper steps from something to
Something else

Softens the eyes of grandmothers
Smiling between themselves

Remembering their grown
Children

As not.
Paper-skin hands

Veins of deepest ancient blue
Holding love so old

For small things.
New things.

Fresh, little human being
Royalty in our eyes.

Commanding
Without knowing.

Heart itself on two
Tiny legs.

I wonder how many books you've read on creativity.
Have they made nearly as much sense as your writing does to me?
(In that case, it's probably not very many.)
I often wonder what it is that makes one poet better than another at poetry.
Is it something in the ability to let go?
To feel free to type wildly regardless of judgement/ego/typos?

I doubt it.