When thrown into experience we lose
The true condition of the self that proves
We bloom. In spring, in summer; everyday
We have the possibility to Be.
To be aware of who we are, and not to judge
The actions that we take as result of
The limits we perceive through human minds.
Through it all always desperate to find
What lies beneath, the truth of life; our light.
Just let it guide. The rest comes easily.

With hearts for love and hope, not hate and greed,
I'm constantly left contemplating, why?
Willingly in the dark, yet claim to see,
To play the game of ego with the self
While others play along, won't ask for help
Or find it in themselves; refuse to try
Then wonder why they just don't feel fulfilled.
It's not a case of finding light outside,
Just realise the life that's seen in you
Is all the light that shines over the view.

they're saying "all you do is drink and cry", "I think you're bad for everyone" and you're not saying anything and I'm saying I love you,
I ******* love you
And maybe I needed something to bring me back to reality maybe these bathtubs are always a little too deep for me but I fit so perfectly in small spaces because I learned when I was 14 that i was never gonna grow into a butterfly
but my aunt still calls me hers and I'd still flutter my eyelashes on yours while the earth turned to ash because I like things ending so softly
and you are a ******* miracle if I've ever seen one I want to sleep with you so badly, on a trampoline in the summer and I want to watch you do bad things and smile so sweetly at you and you'll know that I don't give a **** what you do as long as you're still loving me while you're doing it because baby we've got this one life and I've been loving you as long as I have known what love is and I know it's in the way you whisper and I know it's in the way you say you're my world and if the world stopped turning tomorrow we'd be the only things still moving with excitement you make me so nervous and calm and nervous and calm and deep breath you make me nervous I bet you'll make me nervous when we're older and I'm making you pancakes and I feel your eyes on me and I burn my fingers but you always kiss them better baby
you're an alleyway and the kitten that sleeps there
you're the rain on the windowpane and the water breaking the levee
I'm drowning in everything I have ever said to you so if I say one last thing one last thing,
while you're not saying anything,
I love you,
I ******* love you

I'm in the current review of
everything right now.
When my lungs have told me enough
already and I taste of foul
consequences that seep into taste buds.

The walls were gushing water,
as they often seemed to do, and
I always lay on my side,
left leg crossed over right.
Nothing irregular.

The tinge, spark, of pain from a
resting avocado, I can feel it in the
tip of my thumb. The right one.
You were supposed to be soft,
and full of the good fats.

I can't look at a cupola without
seeing "SEWN". But I guess that's
just what happens when someone
intercepts your point of view.

a poem for Ben*

I remember sitting with you in a small
field when the air was sweet and comfortable.
An air that draped itself upon your
skin to shield it from a breeze.
The field, wasn't really a field.
But an inevitably guilty attempt to cover
up the shame of the town's aging lines.
It was adjacent to a bank, and I played
with the crumbling dried up dirt under the
bench that you sat on
I read you a poem here.

You called me confessional.
I don't remember what we were doing there.

It is easiest to lose the time when you can
feel it moving forward, but looking back
has different laws in physics.
Back, then, in the relation to now drags
slowly behind the future. Progression.
For now it is cold and I tread carefully,
through ice glazed parking lots,
but I can remember you in the warmth.
And you can still find me in the snow.

I don't believe in reality right now.
The walls littered with literature of
one night's sobbing onto the carbon
copy- Machine out of order
due to ******* and coffee spills.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme and
I'm glad it didn't but the meter of this poem
is to irregular breathing and jostling
doors on hinges influenced by the
pressures of windows opening and closing.

You were a goddess up there. In the
chair that you loved and learned to hate
3 months later. It pulls you down deeper
into your own personal- Help me understand your
A.M. radio beauty.

Was it recorded then, or is he
making it now?

Old men drinking ***** on Monday afternoons ...
Dragging on Camels , warming calloused hands by
the burn barrel ...
Southern rail cars pass them by , their stories are another place in another
time ...
Cashing welfare checks for potted meat and saltines , Wild Turkey
and Goody powders ...
Crossing the railroad bridge bound for home on a frigid , blustery Georgia evening ..