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I can be too selfish sometimes
I wanted to steal all the beautiful things
in the world and keep them for myself

*But the sun was too hot,
the sea drowned me,
the wind couldn't be contained,
And love was too big to fit in my pocket.
Lay down and let me
Trace the scars across your skin
I will love you still
And when you lay there in your skin
Motionless, silent
Beautiful, perfect

How could I not love you more
I ran across burnt roads for you;
You walked on cloudy grass
I fought the demons you forced me to dismay;
You relished in my rotten path
I always told you I loved you;
And still, I'd never take it back
I will never know why I miss
you or her, or the
friendship we had, the bond
we held. I will never
know why I long for these
back.

When they say that people are like
waves, they come
they go. They come
they go.
Then why does
it
hurt
when your waters
crash
into me.

I'm not sure it's supposed to. Perhaps
it's the days we
spent laughing and running
through corridors, throwing
fruits
throwing dolls and throwing
words
of promise.

But now I sit
throwing
memories, hoping they'd
return (The way
waters would.)


Perhaps it's the game of
catch. Simple as throwing a ball
and having someone throw it
back.

Now I don't have a ball
Or that friend to throw it
back.

If I could turn tides to soft waters
I would. But storms are
stronger. And sometimes you
can't just keep
wishing

For the melancholy to stop
I posted this poem  a few days after I joined HP.  As  is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions.  With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked.  Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week.  So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship

The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.

With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.

The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.

Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!

Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?

Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?

If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.



March 2012
For they are the best of me.
I am unashamedly in need of what
You cannot give me, so I ask for something simple.
Love my poems, and though your hand will never caress my pains away,
Loving words I share is sharing some of my distress and easing my difficult way ahead.
I will tell you one thing more.
I never met a poem here I did not like.
Not one.
There is only one kind of poem and it is: kindness.
Looking for something to go beyond,
This life is like skipping a rock on a pond.
At the very last skip,
It stops with a splash.
Sinking to the bottom,
Gone in a flash.
I still think of you late at night when the silence overwhelming.
I still see your face in the pictures on the wall.
I still hear your voice in the messages I can’t erase.
And yet I wonder if you watch as I struggle to move on?
Do you rue the time that was lost?
In your last moments, did you think of me?
Or was the agony blinding?
I often look back and try to feel your pain.
Try to understand what caused you to throw your life away.
I attempt to look at things from your point of view.
Or find a solution to come to.
But it’s cloudy and it doesn’t make sense.
And now I’ll never have answers, only constant regrets.
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