Her happiness was measured in milligrams-
the dosage of her Prozac,
or the amount of alcohol she didn't drink
alone in her room
and the number of men who lay on her bed
for twenty minutes-
thirty, on a good day.

The lengths we will go to feel alive
when what we really want is death.

Getting jealous?*
I nudge her jokingly.

She shrugs and smiles.
I'm not bothered by the

Tattoo on your chest that
Says Tina,

Am I?
God, I love confidence.

No eggshells under my feet,
No worry that she'll pry

Or spy. She's her own woman.
Claims to be mine, but

I know better. Even heavy
Clouds don't own the rain.

All I can do is get
Soaked, open

My mouth if I'm thirsty.
Take in the washing.

Hope that the deluge
Never ends.

It's getting covered up, I
Assure her.

Hoping she
Cares.

I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light
the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love
with  anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?"
"It really is, you are right there, but pardon me
I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled,
"Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit"

I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant,
the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss
with a wink,  a word that touches somewhere tender
or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth
that not even  expect any kind of reciprocation,
blowing like fragrant  breeze, caressing drooping trees.
Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk
whom one only could think as incarnates
came down  to lift this miserable world
up from the quagmire, the ***** pit  it has fallen
because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance

The sun's gone down
And the searchlights are off,
Cause I've found that
There's more to see in the dark.
So I'm siting at the bar,
Watching him take his shots.
I'm searching for love
But I've never been so far off.
I wish I knew his name,
But I don't have the courage to ask.
Maybe I'll find what I'm looking for
At the bottom of this glass.

So you say poems don’t sell
ain’t no buyer for your works
arduous hours of a job done well
go down the drain fetch no perks!

You’re right poems do don’t sell
though you fill them with heart’s spice
by the hour growing weary and frail
you surely can’t feel any nice!

A dollar a poem how fine it would be
add a dollar a read to it
but poems are meant to be sold just free
you aren’t to be paid for the feat!

But you’re wrong poems do sell
them the readers do buy
when to their heart your thoughts travel
and their spirit soars up sky high!