Gazing down
on sleepy towns,
transparent sky,
high above

Down below are the workers,
the daughters,
the smokers,
the bank robbers

On I soar,
hearing the jet engine roar,
and thousands of feet beneath,
the partiers are still drowning in
deep sleep

Flying by
as lovers exchange a kiss,
a lonely man cries,
a doctor mending a broken wrist

Downward gazing,
burnouts blazing,
artists creating,
blooming vegetation,
streets full of
imagination, fascination,
devastation,  miscalculations,
faces, races, places, nations;

Peering down from the heavens;
the view is
amazing.

Puffy white clouds
whisping by,
thousands
and
thousands
of
feet
above my hometown,
I gaze
out the
rectangular
viewing screen
hungrily,
choking back tears,
revisiting the
farewells;
on the beacon of
adventure,
riding the aircraft
away from
what was,
only to return
anew,
fully in bloom.

I recall how sweet
my name sounded
as it gently rolled
                              off your tongue,
each syllable
playing a note in the harmony
you created
in calling to
me
gently;

can't you just,
one more time,
put the vinyl on,
crackling and
popping
six
simple alphabetical
chords?

I would play
it on
repeat.

It was a Sunday night,
a Sunday night that was
truly a Monday morning,
but the darkness,
coupled with
the heaviness of my body's
desire for rest,
to me it still felt like
nighttime.

The sweetly scented candles
flickered silently,
their aroma
filling my nostrils
as the sounds of
a
cliché romance movie
filled my
eardrums.

The dry red wine
poured smoothly
from
        the bottle to
                             my empty glass
        for the fourth time
   that
night.

Yes, it was a Sunday
night,
the pain and miscomprehension
clouding my mind
more than
another glass or
another hit
ever could.

How heavy
it all
    weighed


down
on
me

that
Sunday night;

That Sunday night,
I knew
I loved you,
but you never
loved me
back, and

That
Sunday night,
in the
darkness,
I sipped slowly,
blinked softly,
and
out
came
the
tears

that
I
had
resisted

for
many
nig­hts
just
like
this.

It was a Sunday night
when I finally
cried.

Again.

The scorpion
knows
not truly
of the
consequences
following
the
sweet, poisonous,
painful
venom
he
exerts
without a sound
into
his
prey;

venomous,
dangerous,
penetrating
the naivety
of his
victims
without even a
moment's
notice,
it's
done;

slithering
away
before
he can assess
the damage,
the
carcass of
the unfortunate
accidentally
infected,
left to rot

alone.

Life feels
so
simple
as my
hand
hangs
lackadaisically
out my window,

wind rushing through
my    slightly    parted
digits,

inhaling the taste
of
spring,
pollen and sunshine;

just dreamin'.

Twisted
Burning
Toiling
Anguish
Wrapped,
Concealed
Deep
Beneath
D­isconcerted
Contortion
Attempting
Feigning
Effervescence.

How badly
do I wish to love away
your
self-loathing,

to kiss
away your
ignorance,

to
hold you
through
your dissatisfaction-induced
convulsions;

cry away
your demons
and hate,
flushing
the pain
into my
skin.

A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.

Green
is the color of the trees,
the luscious spring grass
that sparkles in the
creamy April sunshine
as I gaze outward
from atop the
monkey bars.

Sweet nectar of
honeysuckle and lavender,
a chorus
reverberating in my eardrums
of children giggling,
swings creaking,
runners thumping by.

I think of you,
your delicious warmth
that abruptly turned cold,
the chill and goosebumps
trickling up my arms.

I blink hard in the light,
brain processing thoughts
jumbled with
sadness
and
strength,
muddled with a dollop of regret,
sprinkled with
perpetuated curiosity.

The almost-turqouise sky,
toward it I stare,
longingly
in attempts to solve
the mysteries circling
my ever-chattering
mind.

Such simplicity
I see in this spring day,
at the playground
where I search
for my own
tranquility and ease.

Will I find
the answers
in the white buds blooming
on the bushes?
Or in the innocent smile
of a girl, no more than one year,
legs kicking jubilantly
as she swings high,
back and forth?
Perhaps then
hidden behind
the trunk of that tree
where a young couple
shares a secret,
sealed with a tender kiss?

Green are the trees and grass,
flowers dressed in beautiful
shades
of pink, purple, and blue,
sun bright yellow,
orange too;

my insides bleeding red,
your name
etched still,
carved into my
wooden heart;
I
bleed
out
all
last
thoughts
of you.

Closing my eyes
to all shades
of rouge,
I reopen
and take in spring,
take in the scent of the air,
take in the green.
You are gone.

Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.

Chewing ******* a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.

Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.

The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.

Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.

She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.

Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.

The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.

Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.

On she drives.

Poetry
is the
buzz of bumblebees
as they extract
the mellifluous nectar
of the tulips
blooming in my mother's
backyard.

Poetry
is the
taste of a brain freeze
pumping hard against my skull
as strawberry ice cream
melts into my
tongue.

Poetry
is the
way it sounds
when I hear the soft strums
of an impromptu banjo
tune.

Poetry
is the
odor of
freshly lit candles,
as the light swells full
with smells
of relaxation
on a sultry
afternoon
in bed.

Poetry
is the
pang of loneliness
a lover feels
as they are engulfed
by
absence.

Poetry
is the
sting of pain
as I bite my lip
hard
to keep from
screaming.

Poetry
is the
tinge of sensations
of
throbbing,
quivering,
and
detonating
with a forceful
heave of
breath.

Poetry
is the
scent and hum
as the coffee ***
vibrates,
emitting
a sweet aroma
to lift the
early morning
fog.

Poetry
is the
grin that washes
from left to right
across a face
jubilant
with
appreciation
and
admiration.

Poetry
is the
senses jolted,
the
emotions experienced,
the
moments lived.

Poetry
is the
laughter,
the
tears,
the
yelps,
the
moans.

Poetry
is the
harmonizing,
the
intertwining,
the
dreaming.

Poetry
is the
anguish,
the heartbreak,
the failures.

Poetry
is the
catharsis,
the felicity,
the obstacles overcome.

My world,
your world,
our world;
it is the poetry,
flowing rapidly,
lusciously
from my ballpoint pen.

Flick of fire,
take a hit
of desire;
inhaling mystery,
exhaling fears,
coughing on
personal history,
choking on
invisible
tears;
setting a blaze
sentiments,
puffing out
resentment;
breathe in
the questions,
taking a drag of
my confessions;

High
on
Introspection.