Crimson are the rivers flowing
blood eternal bone and skin
you and I, my sisters, brothers
all of earth as one akin
plants and animal air and sun
God Eternal we are one.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

the ever-distracting daydream is a form of presence
   says the window
my hand unconsciously crafts doodles
before averting back to words



if I were a poem
I would be everything
  in between the letters
unseen and often misunderstood
to feel me
    you would need to let go
of meaning
           float off paper
     beyond lines
to open airwaves
   don't try to read me
   I need to be heard

if I were a poem
            [wait what]

if I were a poem
            [yo, did you hear that]

if I were a poem
my stanzas would be disjointed puzzle pieces
horcruxes spread to different verses
each with a fractal of spirit
  but never the whole
put me together at the end
for the big picture
-I wouldn't make sense along the way-
I would hold magic in my brokeness
enough power in my message to build
  ...and destroy
      ...and rebuild again

there would be so many gaps
you would wonder where the years went
  come and go as they please
I would only speak when silence requested
my composition would paint Surreal Renaissance Futurism
                     yea... make that make sense...

if I were a poem
I would be referring to imaginary numbers
and friends
fictitious characters and places
just outside that window pane
            like [c'mon you saw that]

side-quest-obsessed
catch me on a tangent
lost in a daze
   days     hours     minutes.    seconds
catch me relative
just like the hands of time

if I were a poem
I would require second chances
  over and over again
but I'd be worth it
  be worth the suspended disbelief
just for the amusement of it all

if I were a poem...

g@#dgvxdbyhix&*u@ggcuybbdjhgus$%

Walking along the silent road,
thinking of where I've been;
Taking the time to set to rhyme,
all the music flowing within.

Questions have always haunted me,
the answers never seemed to come;
But in the melodies of the night,
I hear the beating of a drum.

Or is it just my lonely heart,
that thumps inside my chest ?
And when the darkness rises full,
will life's purpose come to rest ?

Yet in the moonlit skies above,
my quest seems small and meek;
For soon the rains of autumn fall,
laying kisses upon my cheeks.