Is it possible
to care too much?
Even when
pieces of hope fall away
like parts of a derelict house,
yet belief endures.
Outside logic's doors
deep within
the heart and soul
I swear, beyond the grave.
And so it is no.
It's not possible
to care too much.

                             By Phil Roberts

How holy the night looks, dressed in its crushed velvet gown, folding in all the delicate and beautiful places.

I tuck my grief into bed beside me and as I feel it's cold heat, its head careening onto my shoulder, I wish I could have your thin fingers lapping over my wrist, your delicate and blue beauty settling into the space next to me, left by my own two careless eyes. I want to feel your body curled up beside mine, safe and righteous in its temple of quilts and comforters, safely lullabied by a 10 episode Netflix binge, popcorn strewn on the carpet like exploded snowflakes from when I tried to throw it in your mouth, missing because I shook with butterfly laughter.

I want to take your sadness and whisper it to a memory. I want to kiss the fading and cooling parts of the sun back to life. I want to taste what every word you've ever spoken sounds like, feels like, lips on biography on lips on pearl's surface. I want to hold your heart like the wildly beating wings of a tiny bird. I want to love you so much, so beautifully, so genuinely, so big and wide and lovely as the ocean, so that love is spoken back into existence.

I didn't know what love was
until I died for it

I've lived in the eye of
the storm, looking
west always
watching for
the clouds to
roll in like fat fingers

the ears attuned to
the sound of
thunder

nostrils flaring like some
wild animal waiting
for the cordite smell of
negative ions

tasting blood as my
jaws clench on my tongue

feeling the wind anticipating
the abrasive whip of sand
as it picks up


it's 6:30 am and for some
reason I
look east

the clouds
to my
eyes are great sponges
soaking up the color
of angular light

sleepy birds twitter

i smell the desert's
perfume as she dolls
herself up for
her ardent admirer

del Sol

my mouth
is full of
bittersweet coffee

I can feel no wind at all.



the night's as black as coal
out west...


... and yet there's still morning.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/9/2017

There is some magic
In the words left unsaid

A parallel universe exists
within those unspoken things

where the limitless open sky
is tempting you
to open your wings,
And fly

the wind blowing through your face
produces music of its own...
Only if you can listen

between all the things real
there is imagination

across all the desires
there are dreams

amid this silence,
there is music
there is magic
there is love.

Calmly
Serenely
The sun slowly subsides
From the still-starless sky
And the moon is still a ghost
A time of mystery and myth
Half-light illusions
Unusual shadows
And strange delusions
When memories and dreams
Wander from one to the other
Blend beyond relevance
And I once remembered
A memory I never had

                                       By Phil Roberts

What do you do
when you realize
you're the aftermath
of someone's abuse?

It was written in the subtleties,
not the clear skin on your face.

You find it etched inside
of a voided smile.

The byproduct
of back handed remarks.

You stayed home
convinced yourself
you weren't really lonely.
But when you went out
you were made to feel the same.

Second guessing became
second nature.
Proving yourself worthy
became a personality trait.

It's not always clenched fist
or hit and run

It's a quick wit
and a razor tongue too.

The kind of love
that makes you
question the lengths
you've walked in life.

Makes you think
the only way is stay put
or go backwards.

The green eyed monster
turned you pale again
and you don't see
yourself in the mirror anymore.

Only someone who paints
her face with a smile
and tells everyone she's okay.

But the aftermath
is still just as deadly.
and your eyes feel sore
from trying to see
the good in things.

It's not always black eye
and a pain in your head.

If the flags read red-
then run.
No matter how far
you have made it.

I believe in Fairy Tales
In magic swords and mystic sails
In pixie dust and prodigious whales
In dreamy girls and dragon scales
In binding spells and butter ales
In giant men and golden bales
In riding hood and racing snails
In blissful love and breadcrumb trails
In every sense the phrase entails
I believe in Fairy Tales

There's a sea I sometimes find myself treading in,
Sometimes steady, sometimes drowning.
It's hard to stay afloat at times,
And I hallucinate people on ships sailing past me,
Not a care in the world, and I hate them;
Every imagined smile hurts like inhaling the saltwater.
But the worst thing is the monstrous shadow beneath the waves,
Huge and treacherous with eyes like emeralds,
It wants to swallow me whole and drag me down,
Into waters so deep that all becomes black.
And worst of all, when I hear that leviathan's rumbling roar,
I sometimes think it's coming from inside me.

does it burn
*to pinch a flame?

tides of dark ink,
the rocks buried
by the drowning waves
where the water  
falls in little grooves,
sweeps the shore like
a sudden gust of wind,
the sea surreal as gleaming stars,
the sea surreal as an evening star.