Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled

It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness

and refuse it a name?

What?

You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?

I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth

There’s imitation in the air
A display of affection
Lost, in reproach
She hangs her head
And exhales a holocaust
The bitter wind
Isn’t blowing
Hard enough.
Shadows in this morning view
Drawing echoes on her face
Timelines of torments
Presentations of vanity
For this artificial world to see.
No reserves
--These wounds
Are naked
Salt from the shoreline
In scattering particles
Nesting in the deepest cuts.
She feels nothing
Apart from callousness
And abandonment.
The sun rises further
Piercing the semblance
Her face is faded
She buries it deep
In the sand.

I feel as though i had a soul mate
and i forgot them

Whoever it is, i miss our fun times; adventures, games, autumn leaves and hidey holes out of the wind, projects, enthusiasms, unexpected visits, your wacky plans, a sense of possibility in every moment, as though we could cross oceans

The days before i feared my own freedom,
before my clothes stopped making sense.

my love is in this place;
runs through it like
blushed
cheeks,

and the wind carries our laughter.