Don't stop now your on a roll
Came shouts from the crowd outside
So he took out pen and paper
In hopes of another rhyme

There were faces pressed against the glass
All looking for a view
Hungry for some answers
In the form of poetic truth

The atmosphere was sticky wet
Droplets forming on his face
A heaviness hung in the air
Nervousness that you could taste

Never doing well under pressure
He has learned this over time
So he goes into his darkened room
To purge all thought from mind

That's when this idea it hits him
What we never have enough
Takes out a permanent marker
Writes on the glass...

...Simply Love

Nocturnal bloodlust.
Pale Luna cries tears of stone.
He drowns in her fruits.

I was going to write a poem

about the distance
I walk
girls to their cars.
You know, to the door?
down the stairs to the front porch?
out to the first step for that last, awkward hug?
do I really like them?
Am I concerned for their safety
or is this just
the obligatory,
socially and culturally
acceptable
distance for me to walk with this particular individual?

Did I even get out of bed?
Is the distance I walk directly proportional to the amount of feelings I have for that person at that time?
Or does time of day or night play into it?

Do I actually walk them
all the way
down the hill
to where they are allowed to park,
if they are a one nighter but it is 3 a.m.?

Or perhaps to the end of my lawn,
at the opening of my small,
rickety,
barely noticed
fence,
which keeps nothing in or out,
to hold them so tight that they know,
they just know

with every molecule in their essence

that I am theirs,

all of me,

and that I do not want them
to leave
but if they must,
I shall be waiting

eagerly

with every molecule of my essence

to breathe them in again,
to feel them near me again,
to smell their sweat again?  

I was going to write about that.
But then I thought,
why not write about your plants?

I realized the other day,
while watering my various plants,
six in total,
that all of them had been given to me.

They were all gifts.

By women.

My dear mother,
both of my  beautiful sisters,
two  rotten ex-girlfriends of mine,
and a kickass lesbian friend
I met through somebody
that got walked to the front porch.

Surely
there must be a poem
in there somewhere, I thought.
With all the females
and the ***
and the plants
and soil
and life

and all that other *******,

surely
I must be able
to conjure up

something beautiful,
something wonderful
and profound
and bewildering
and inspiring

and all that other *******,

but sadly for you
dear reader,
all I could come up with

was this *******
you just read.

The good thing is,
I didn't write this for you.
I wrote this for me.
I have to.

Summoning a Spring time synchronicity
The Goddess Archetype
Submitting at nature's feet
Resonating the ground
Shaking the Earth for the divine crown
To grace me with her presence
She'll embrace my transgressions
Wrapped around and tethered out
from my sacral region

My Princess almost got you beat
But she was always in another castle
Leaving notes
warning me of the ghosts
that'll chase me down when I'm distracted
It was always about the journey
so she left me with the gift of permanent flight
My imagination took it and ran with it
To the ascensions

The haunting happenstance
of the girl of my dreams
Teetering on the edge of sleep
We met halfway at fatigue
Waking up on the shores of her subconscious
Or was it mine?
Here's to shared consciousness

Pouring my heart out
into an empty glass house
Half-filled after I built it for her
The rest of the emptiness subsides
She found safety here
So she locked her totem away
Replacing her sanity
with a vacancy sign

A simple idea planted
but never manifested
Until it tore her soul out
It was her on the ledge of some building
begging me to jump with her
Shared freefall
Like we're still dreaming to wake up
and let reality's lie wash over us
She's slipping

She's caught up in mystery
There was always something about her
The way of the cliche and how it magnetizes
Pulling my insides out
Projecting my other half.