They asked us to write a poem
in class
I thought about my B2 yellow pencil
and the way it used to
move easily

It was like if my words
would flow submerged in a labyrinth
and come up to breathe now and then
to show off in front of my face
that I would never place them in paper again

I knew I had to find another source of thoughts
and I asked
I was told that they'd seen my poem
hidden in dead end streets and alleys
where most of the best stories
go to die

they told me that Vincent Van Gogh
used the street as his canvas
and that Nicholas Copernicus found his passion
within the streets of a starry sky

I found my poem
with a case of severe amnesia
lost in an alley
snooping between the leftovers
of the things that he once saw me living

He said he got lost
a few months ago
when he started to feel unwelcomed
around me

I convinced him to go back home
and fed him
and asked him to return to my hands
or at least
to let me place him in paper

But he decided to leave
he grew arms and legs
and kicked down my door
and he was gone again

I knew there that everything that comes back
never does it not even as remotely
as how it was

and I'm here thinking
why did he leave again?

I think he found his color and shape
in the streets
far
too faraway
from me

I like you.
Yes, quite a bit I do.

Just about as much as I like the stars,
and quite a bit more than I like cars.

I like you as much as a like the trees,
it's safe to say that you're the bees knees.

I like you more than I like drugs,
and one of my favorite places to be,
is wrapped in one of your hugs.

You boop my nose,
and kiss my mouth.

You hold my hand,
and put my mind at ease.

You leave bruises on my neck,
and make me happy.

I do these things for you too,
and it makes you happy.

Poetry is about what is said
And what is implied

Implying is known for its subtle
Body gestures or vague sentences

Syntax and diction often control
The reader's persepctive

but
how can I control what other's think

Is it colorful word choice
Or WHAT WORDS STAND OUT

Am I accurate in assuming that
With a simple
pause

and repeat of word
I can cause someone to think otherwise?

Is it crazy that I control
the beat
in time
with a
meter

My dear I seem to have you under a spell
Can I tell you something

I'm not falling for you
I am in fact

Floating
Or for a better word

Afloat with you
Enjoying the water

And maybe
Someday
at some point
In some time

I will be ****** in
Drowned in your bliss
Penetrated by your words
Enraptured by your touch

Poetry is for mad people
With nothing better to do than to scrawl out their words with a pen nearby or a ***** keyboard that sounds more atrocious than the screaming of a fish

Poetry is the only way I can say my feelings
and if it's confusing

I'm sorry
I'm also confused

Maybe your love won't be drowning
and for once

It will feel like flying

Why is it I like you so much?
                                                            Uhm... I don't know! I think I'm charming
I don't think so
                                                          Well I don't know! They are your feelings
Are they?
                                                         They aren't mine!
Well you gave them to me!

Two weeks drug free.
I did it for myself,
I did it for my sister
for you
and for her.

Cravings don't wake me up at night anymore.
I can hold a cigarette without my hands shaking
and I can look my mother in the eye.

Where are you to share in my sobriety?
Where are you to help me through it?
(Where are you?)

What's one more pill to a man who's taken thousands?
It depends;
if you're running out and you drop one under the fridge, it's enough to move the fridge.
If you've taken eight but can't seem to fall asleep one might just do the trick.
If you're trying to sober up one might mean starting the cycle again.

I wonder if clouds know they're beautiful
When they sit and watch from the the sky

I wonder if they know how dangerous and threatening they are
When thunder cries out

I wonder if they know how they turn colors
When the sun hits them just right

I walk to work wondering if they know

I wish I could live up there with them
I could be puffy and white

And no one would say anything
Because that's how clouds are

I wish I could reflect the sun
But only be full of rain

If I was full of rain
I wouldn't be full of emotion

Clouds don't become angry
Or sad

Clouds don't fall in love
And realize their love wasn't real

I wonder if clouds know how truly breath-taking they are

If I could stay and lay on the grass all day
And watch them

I would

I've driven through clouds once
It was like a dream

I pulled over and felt the fleeting puffs wisp by
I felt the rain wet my skin

I felt the cold penetrate my clothes
I felt the wind tangle my hair

And most of all
I felt the thrill of being in the clouds

I wonder if they thought of me as beautiful
As much as I saw them that way

I've written three poems tonight,
and each one ended up in my waste basket.
Sometime after writing the third,
and giving up for the night
I realized what was wrong.

I wasn't writing about you.