The heart wants what the heart wants
The mind deftly follows
the eyes open wide
The mouth cannot swallow
the skin starts to glow
The ears hear it all, even the lows
For when the heart wants
What the heart wants
You must let your soul follow

She's as sick of me
As I am sick of her
And of this disease
I hope there is no cure

She is all I need
Inside of my world
Never has there been a doubt
That I love this girl

In fact I am so sick
It brought me to my knees
Where it is that I proposed
Asking her hand please

Pledging her my love
From that moment out
Being this love sick
Is nothing to sneeze about

Yes her love is
What I am sick with
Hoping that I never
Do get over this

With a temperature
As high as 102
I've got myself a hardened case
The best of the love flu

I'm as sick of her
As she is sick of me
Not looking for the cure
To this love disease

narrow potholed roads
long winding switchbacks
blind corners that lead
the chosen to heaven

the rest of us
sinners

rotting slash piles
in a clear cut
fireweed rising
from raw earth

in this land of trees
the forest is forgotten

Two days
from now
you won’t remember
how I laid you down
delirious,
my six-year-old
daughter
swooning

spoonfuls
of purple
medicine
sickly sweet

your body burning
up beneath
pink sheets
you kicked
to the foot
of the bed

I swear
you were
dreaming
of mermaids
saddled on pink dolphins
like bejeweled rodeo stars
mermaids
swimming closer
mermaids
with long yellow hair
bucking waves—
sea girls with
one hand raised
in salty air,
orbiting
in circles
overhead,
wee galaxies
of ocean mist,
droplets
of sweat
on your lips.

At dawn
your fever
broke with
the sweetness
of candy glass
mason jars;
fireflies
escaping
as embers,
a dimming
delirium
of stars.

Two days
from now
you won’t remember
how I came to you
in the middle
of the night
when you cried
out for me,
your voice
unfamiliar—
a song sung
by a small girl
burning up
beneath
the sea.

Life is not a garden of fragrant flowers,
Life is a chef's kitchen;
Some things get burnt,
Some are frozen,
In the end, it all tastes well.

Life is not a cycle ride down a smooth road,
Life is a bumpy journey uphill;
There are sharp, blind turns
Plus an upward *****,
But the view is magnificent.

Life is not a perfect picture captured by a DSLR,
Life is a photograph shot with a 1.3 megapixel camera;
With no editing allowed,
The sky looks blurred through it,
When actually it is clear.  

Life is not a cup of Starbucks coffee,
Life is a glass of Coke;
It is cold,
Addictive at times,
Mostly, fizzy and sparkling.

Life is not-
Seeing the glass half full.
Just appreciating as is;
*Simply, beautiful.

i always feel this constant need to be relevant,
to have people noticing me
or talking about me,
i want to be on everyone's mind
and, when i'm not, i feel like
i'm going to fall off
the face of the earth
with no one to pick me up
when i'm broken and bruised,
no one to care
because i'm not relevant enough
to be known,

it's this sinking feeling in my stomach
that makes me feel like i'm not good enough,
that people don't actually like me,
so i fall into these moods
where i feel as if i annoy everyone
and i know i shouldn't be clingy,
and i hate myself for it every second,

but i can't help that i feel so alone in this world
that i need the attention of others,
to feel alive again,
to see color in my own black and white world

he sits on the bar stool beside her
                            too skinny
                            his flat wrinkled forehead
                            lifts brown bushy eyebrows
                            but he does not speak to her

                            she is blonde of course
                            perhaps 23
                            also skinny
                            a flat chested go go dancer
                            from new york city
                            el passo
                            bakersfield
                   ­         miamichicagomontreal
                            denver…­

                            she is with someone else

                             he thought she was his
                             but now

                             as a friend
                             she would like to buy him a shot

                             tired eyes narrow                            
                             he  stares at her as if he
                             has never lost a job
                                                                      ­                                     
                             as if no woman
                             brunette red head or blonde that he has loved
                             whose name he has tattooed onto his arm
                             has ever left him
                             as if the mail man, the priest, and his mom
                             are spitting into his stupid face
                             as if god has kicked him in the nuts
                             as if his dog has bit his hand as if
                    
                             this could never have happened to him

If you miss someone
You don't lack that person
You need happiness that person snatched from you.