There's a part of me
she's often overlooked.
Gray in color,
it remembers my pain,
and what matter
she must think
when she's using
my other part
for her
good clean fun.
It hurts.

I realize I'm home.
A cool draft
smacks my face
this early morn.
It's eye-opening,
so stark,
I've been gone
way too long,

I remember our song
and softly hum
its hypnotic-tune.
Such gentle
soothing mandolins
in beautiful rhythm
with the birch blades
twirling constantly,
like they always do.

As I lie here
listening,
I hear the thermostat
intermittently
kick in
and I curl up
all alone.
My chin is nestled
in my palm,
already
dreaming,
wishing,
hoping for your light.

I think,
if you only knew,
I silently scream,
"My kingdom
for my fair Lady....
to greet the rising sun,
this raw glistening."

I search the ceiling,
my entire universe,
for your sparkly starlet eyes....
I miss you so much,
my Queen.
Loneliness is not regal....

blank snapchat conversation

unopened text messages

'seen: 11:01pm'

'1 new text message: (not you)'

The whole world will shatter, whether you forgive yourself or not.
The difference is that if you forgive yourself,
you will still be there, standing above the rubble.
You will still be whole, even if nothing else is.

Draw in your hand,
and speak your desires,
upon the thin paper of my heart.

Let me compose them into songs of the creek, let's feel
the sound of the cricket's chirp, all week.  We'll get lost,
And fly away like a dream into the night, forgetting the cost
Of freedom, for by the dawn our time will only be revealed.

We'll run up  upon the towers and dance into the amber sky,
for we will renew the earth by the light of songs.
We'll watch as the world turns cold, as our hearts fly with such power.
For like my jacket that covers you, let my voice always hold you.

In the embers of your heart, let me receive all of you.
Like the red dress that sings about you, let me forever

love you so.

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

In a silky forest
In a shape of a golden rose
Wandered back and forth
Waved her forgiveness
Blessed me with her mercy
With the gift of her soul
Madam, I have no soul left
My body is just a dust
I'm a graveyard...
I'm an immortal guest
I'm no one if not in her chest
Her treasured smile
Her lovely sight
Her heavenly touch
Her misty lips
Her eternal nest
I'm just a graveyard...
I'm just an immortal guest