How does one measure the value of a poem?
Is it in the amount of letters, or metaphors, or analogies?
Is it the underlying meaning of the poem?
Is a poem relating to Plato better than a poem of love?
Is it not in how it makes us feel?
How can we 'Grade' a poem, when a poem isn't meant to be graded?
Poems are simply meant to be felt.
Is this poem worthier than any other I've written?
How can I know? And why does worth matter?
Isn't worth relative? What is relative, what isn't relative?
Is poetry even relative?
What of me makes myself relative?
What makes me relevant?
Then, what makes my poems less relevant than one another,
when I'm not even sure any of us are relevant at all?
What makes this all worthwhile? What is our end-goal?
Nothingness, empty vortexes of desolate hopelessness:
Therefore, why must we justify writing, when we can't even justify living?

You are the worst safe.
It's like you go around, handing out the key I gave.
The only reason my words leave your mouth sprinting
is because they were inside of your;
what a dark place that must be.

We piled up dishes,
           yours and mine, both.
We didn't feel like cleaning our messes- we both had our own only we could handle.
It took months for us to realize how high the plates were stacked,
           -actually, at first, only I realized.
           -actually, you never realized.
We had plates in every crevice.
           You balanced spoons on top of the photo albums,
           I piled forks on my old notebooks,
           Knives were stabbed into the walls,
           I put bowls on top of my albums,
           You stacked plates on your bed,
           I put the cups onto my bed,
                      and we could never really sleep again.
We couldn't open old letters or see past pictures,
           (things grew easier that way, or so we deluded to ourselves)
and the plates and silverware and bowls and cups          
           ruined our lives,
so that we had to learn to live with our own messes,
           but, eventually, I realized
           I couldn't live in this mess;
I started to clean up. I made some **** good progress, too.
           It was a challenging task, but I've done well.
I can sleep most nights now,
           but sometimes I still turn and find
           a fork lost somewhere in the sheets.
When I open old folders, sometimes a teaspoon falls out,
           and I can't help but get lost in the mess again,
but it's gotten better for me; it can get better for you.
           You're not letting it, though.
You go out and buy dishes just to ***** them,
           because you get a kick out of living in a mountain of plates and silverware.
I don't think we can ever be clean again,
           completely at least,
but you've got to get rid of your mess,
           or else, you'll be just another plate in the pile.

I crossed my legs on the walkway's bench,
with stress streaming down my cheeks
splashing into puddles of dark remorse
of a mistake I should have never chosen.
I made my own silent ultimatum,
and your anger and sadness, both,
show that my ultimatum is pointless,
just as much as my love and care.
The river running swift seems able to carry me
to my final moments, and I'm almost willing,
and the rocks that divide the river
probably can also to me.
The only thing that allows my knees to bend,
and the only thing that allows my body to rise,
time and time again, with the current of your waters
knocking me backwards into a frenzied sea of despair,
is the hope that my own life can extend to
improve the lives of my children, my loves,
and in this way only, do I get the feeling
that maybe there's something worth living for.
I'm done feeling sorry for everything I do,
I'm done feeling that I'm just one big mistake,
I'm done feeling like it's my fault that everyone is sitting on a park bench,
with their heads tucked neatly into the palms of their hands,
and the only sound other than the killer water,
is the rapid inhale of marijuana,
and the rapid exhale of sorrow.

I shouldn’t be saying these words to you.
I shouldn’t be having these thoughts of you.
I shouldn’t be kissing your metaphorical neck,
Because I hate you.
My god, do I ******* hate you.
Actually, you disgust me.
But I can’t get past you.
I can’t get the smell of your hair out of my nose,
I can never wipe all of your kisses away,
I can never forget how warm your stomach was,
Or how soft your ear is,
Or the outline of your fingers,
Your bony, irritating, adorable fingers.
I hate you so much, I think I’m insane to love you.

You sat next to me, half asleep,
on a bus ride home,
with your tired eyes closing,
and your rested your head on me,
as you slowly reclined into sleep,
and I inhaled the light wafture
of the smell of your hair,
and that's all I really wanted.

Your stomach is so
            Soft and just with
The perfect, miniscule layer of fat,
So warm but tender.
Your lips have
The epitomic rondure
Of a woman’s kiss.
Your legs
are smoother than silk,
and I lay my lips,
up and down the paths
that form them.
And I follow up
To the succulent rear
And I pour my hand onto,
To pull cloth away.
My fingers paint
Every thread of hair
That stems across
Your sweaty face,
To clear your eyes,
So I can see the
Absolutely idyllic libido
Pulse through you.
Your hands hold
Firmly onto my back,
Scratching lightly across,
But bring such bliss.
Your breaths fall
Faster and faster
Out of your lips,
Into my shoulder,
Where you kiss
Away every inch you can.
Let me pull away,
But I will coalesce again,
Just to see you,
Entire you, eternal you,
And watch your flesh
Shiver and shake
In my love and
In my passionate quake.
And I place my hand
Down onto the crevice
That folds into your
Eagerly-waiting *****,
Feeling the short hair,
Covered in wet lust,
Pressing lightly enough
That I induce further joy,
As I feel me come in
And retreat out.
I bend over you,
Pull my arm behind you,
Lift you up into me,
With our lips colliding,
Your chest, with each breath,
Connecting with mine,
And you poise on top,
And take control,
But I’m too caught up
In your legs
Your arms
Your hair
Your stomach
Your chest
Your pleased moan,
Your grasping hands,
Your lascivious hips,
Your teeth biting your lip,
Your closed eyelids,
And the way you feel
When you shake so violent,
And I twist so vehement,
That, for a moment,
I’m  almost scared
That we might die,
But I saw this light
Go off in my head,
As you grabbed my hand
And my side,
And ****** harder
And harder,
Until you finally did this
Sort-of-scream,
Sort-of-moan noise,
And I did, too,
And all I remember afterwards
Was the smell of your hair
And the smile you gave me.