I want to stay a
balled up cocoon in my bed
for eternity.

When like minds combine,
the world is easy to grasp;
Two worlds become one.

You are my drug. ..
My high...
So high. ..
Now you've got me crashing. ..
The lowest low I've ever known...
The disapointment is so palpable I could cut it with a knife...
You failed me on this one...
We've all got our demons...
Somehow your mine...

E.J.M.

Fleeting November clouds-
stained with red wine,
fill the sky like one-hundred
crystal glasses,
finally spilling onto the white cloth-
of the Earth's winter table.

WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SCARED SHE IS. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SHE WATCHES THE WAY SHE WALKS, BECAUSE THE LAST TIME SHE FELL IN LOVE, SHE HIT THE GROUND. AND SHE WOULD OFFER HIM HER HEART BUT IT'S BEEN EATEN AT AND STORED IN A DOGGY BAG AROUND A CORNER WITHIN HER CHEST - AND SHE CANNOT HELP BUT ALWAYS FEEL LEFTOVER. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU THAT SHE'S SCARED OF FEELING.
BECAUSE IT DOESN'T FEEL HER BACK.

Open the eyes of my heart
for I want to see You.
I hear Your call at night
in the existence of the moonlight
You said, “I’ve laid foundations in the ocean depths, sail your soul on the deep waters beneath the earth.”
I recalled as a formidable king
to vibrate my heart in meditation,
to elevate in the light energy’s radiation,
to thrive, to rise, to survive,
to inhale and exhale your reviving spirit.

Devoured by false hope
Strangled by loves rope
High with your memories dope.

I don't know how can i cope
If my sanity and my only hope
Is the strop that is used to slit my throat.

Nostalgic but tragic
A magic that got me with the sleight of hand
A trick that played and broke my heart.

last Easter I wrote a poem for you
with rhyming words and beautifully constructed stanzas
about the way your hair looks and the way I wanted you and the way things were changing but -
April came back around all too fast this year and I don't write poems like I used to.
this isn't poetry.
this is October nights with glazed eyes,  burning throats and so much trauma, so much trauma, so much ******* trau-
this is November afternoons smoking my lungs black and tears that i drowned in for every day of that month.
this is December mornings when I spent all my money on Christmas decorations because I thought it would be my last.
this is New Years Eve, clutching her back and sobbing into her shoulders because I couldn't believe I made it - how the hell did I make it?  this is me thanking her, and her, and her too for stitching me back together. this is champagne and the grace of God.
this is February when you came back to me  and as much as i wanted to throw dirt back in your face, I held onto it in hopes of planting something new.
this is March when it wouldn't stop snowing.
this isn't poetry.
this is April,
this is me taking the dirt and burying the idea of us six feet under.
this isn't poetry,
this is Spring and this is the last time you will be mentioned with it.