An impulse from the gut
I am mentally driving and screaming to the desert plains
                          like a mental coyote,

Dry mouth, sour tongue
I'm begging for some relief
And all I get is this ******* conventional life
And rules.

I want the wind, the drought, the sun
                                                     the stars
                                                     the dirt
                                                     the road
                                                     the sweat
                                                     the ***
                                                     the steaming muscles
                                                     the burning skin
Or just the night,

And its yellow moon to bloom in me
And ******* away.
(That's all I ask.)

A poem a day
A poem away
From driving my tears away.

A poem someday
A poem a way
To make up colors from grey.

A poem sometimes
A poem that rhymes
The look of a man counting his dimes,

                 That look from me
                 That look of him
                 Figuring out what's grimm

A poem in time
A poem at night
An ode to freedom out of fright.

A poem to scorch
A poem to heal
To change the world or know what's real.

Although, what's your deal?

The clear stream chuckles
And the mountain opens itself to my gaze,
Lik'a woman, lonely, powerful.

The misty mysterious haze covers
Its top and I wonder,
'Why is it so blue at dawn?'

I wish time stopped there for a long moment

Seems as if I'm the last man alive,
Strangely, I'm quiet happy with it
It's not as melancholic as I thought it would be.

Sprung to the road
                   Had coffee in the moonlight

Her, photographing,
                              The strap pulling her hair in an exquisite way
                              On her knees like a tiny elf
                              Illuminated by yellow street candles,

It was a summer night and the wind was gentle.

It was an odd night
                 In the odd same city as always
                             Oddly comfortable.

The coffee left a bitter taste

Yet the car drove us sweet and joyful
                    Through the yellow painted night.

When I go on the bus
I always sit at the back
So I can watch the whole of it,

Well, sad thing is I always go over the engine
And if it blows up
I'm the first to go.

We're never safe and comfortable, are we?

Love is a not war
But against ourselves,

A will changing
Passion lifter
Bone breaking
Hand scarring
Feet burning,

It has not much to do with the heart
As it slices our brain in half
And we love it
Like loony maniacs who never had a cookie in their lifetime.

There are more stinky love poems than anything else.

Even I have written too many
Even I have written 1, sometimes, 2 full pages
But soaking the paper with tears.
Some go different, go joyful
And why?
Because love is easy to write about
It is the most powerful emotion only equal to hatred
Yet the most boring;
Unless it comes with anything attached
I yawn at those pesky stanzas of repeating gibberish.

Those who vainly describe love itself are cowards
Those who read them morbidly curious
And those who enjoy weak of mind,
For inftuated poems are the equivalent to a pop song
                                  easy to construct
                                  easy to deconstruct
                                  easy to marvel
                                  easy to cry at
                                  easy easy easy
                                  nothing new nothing learned

'O the perfect skin', 'O the glittering eyes', 'O the cheeky smile',

If you want to write about love put some mustard into it
And make it real
Don't waste my time, all lovers are marvelous I get it,

But what scars do they have?
And how many do they leave us with?