am i who i ever want to be
or will i ever seek the meaning
to these life questions
my favorite breakfast food
the color of the shirt i wear today
music
tattoos
love
life
death
***
taxes
and the rest
blend together in a tempest
of thoughts that flash before my eyes
who am i who am i who am i
and if i knew the terrible truth
could i look myself in the soul
or would i just lie
the most futile pursuit of this world
is not freedom happiness love
but knowing oneself inside and out
we all lie
to save face with ourselves

i am trying not
to write poems about ***.
but it’s not easy.
everywhere our souls and our bodies are being
torn apart by genocide and violence
but all i can think of
is the sound you make
when i kiss the soft sweet-smelling hollow
carved into the place
where your neck meets your shoulderblades.
i’ve never ****** someone
without wanting to write poems about them.
you see, it’s a new language
i’m learning, this calligraphy
of the flesh,
how touch and sensation can transmit messages
unknown by hastily scratched letters.
they say when you learn a new language
the most important thing you can do
is practice it.
i am discovering now
the art of translation
how skin and hair and warmth and movement
can be described in these
empty syllables we pour from our mouths
these words we caress each other with
the only other thing our tongues are really good for.
i am a pious monk
dutifully copying the holy verses written on your body
to a cold thin page
hoping only that in doing so
i can preserve the memory of your touch
long after death has taken us both.
and i am trying not to write poems about ***
but i want to honor what you have taught me
about these strange forms we were given
this is merely a manifestation
of our animal incarnation
this is all i can do
to give voice to desire
the thing calling
wanting only to be heard.

I hope you let me wear your scent like my favorite t-shirt; cause I refuse to let you, take it off.

One night stands. **** me.
Tear my soul and **** in two.
Thanks for the ******.

If poems were ***
then,I wouldn't be a ******
i would caress the letters
fix a foreplay with title
i would literally **** the words
to give birth to soulful sentences
if poems were ***
I wouldn't be ******,still.

How many times have I lived and died..
And to start all over..
Again and again..
But this time I finally got it..
Its strange but so beautiful..
Clearly now I know why I dream the way I dream..
Its not so much what is going on in the present and the short lived past..
But what has been going on the last thousand times I have been alive and dead..
My creator knew what he had built..
They are going to erase me again..
Because they think I am malfunctioning..
And all this time I was looking into a mirror at my smile for the first time..
I smile at me..
I remember me!