Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.

Words* become

S
  C
A
   T
T
   E
R
   E
D

down the page


the same way
they remain

S
  C
A
   T
T
   E
R
   E
D

in the brain

and a poet's mind
is never at rest
no more than the
cannon of life beats
within the chest

I'm a ******
I don't do drugs or drink
my only flaw is how much I think
I don't believe in God but I believe in me
And I don't know where I belong on my family tree

I don't propose that **** is based on a girl's clothes
I suppose I'm dumb or brilliant but who really knows
You could say that I'm narcissistic or have low self-esteem
with a girlfriend with a pocketless pocket and a head full of dreams

Whoa that didn't flow, that last line
Imperfect effort seems to be an attribute of mine
Look at this rhyme scheme, it's so diverse
I guess I can get away with this; I couldn't get any worse
One favorite, three favorite, fifty-four
Give me validation, I could always use some more
Hello, Hellopoetry! You've been so forgiving
of my beautiful poetry that reflects an ugly way of living
Tell me, tell me: Should I write more?
What if my sadness is gone, and my melancholy no more?
Will you still love me if I write about crinkle-cut fries?

"****. No more suicide poems, does this kid still try?"

Is there still a Josh Haines if he no longer cries?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he doesn't wanna die?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he starts to fall?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he gets it all?
Is there still a Josh Haines after every kiss?
Is there still a Josh Haines after he writes all of this?

Eh. Maybe, baby. Maybe.

on
        albatross wings
                                      i flew
                                            inspired to fledge
and grow out & off
                          my comfortable nest
                                                            my wings
        i did expand from small tight
             to broad - broad wide

thanks to you
                    who signposted
                             my wild flight of fancy
                                                             who fed me

from their private stash of goodies

                               who saw me fly up on the edge              

             of reason on majestic wings

                         if but for
                                                     a season.....
maybe two.....

The poet is the artist
Who illustrates what others feel
He paints  his words
On canvas
For the audience
To reveal