I don’t know what I’m waiting for
To publish my thoughts.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Uniformed in creative black
Marlboro scented
Wonderstruck
Deliberately
Deliberate
Random
Pixie haired
Angel eyed
& brave

Daring herself to be
Enchantingly urbane
Zeitgeisty
Considerably
Considered
Aware
Pale skinned
Quaintly styled
& risky

A portfolio perfectionist
Absorbing influences
Ferociously
Delicate
Delicately
Persuasive
Scarlet lipped
Crystal tipped
& scared

Your eyes are what spoke to me the loudest, as it did when I first caught your stare. And I still fall for your wink and your lids' sweet fluttering, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I crave for the sound of your voice - gentle and affirming. I remember how each time we talk on the phone your words would slide its way down my throat right through my heart, melting it smooth. I still fall for your laugh, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I ache for every word you've spoken, smitten with tender affection, to again escape your lips. I think I've never told you before how your good-nights are more comforting than the softness of my bed. I still fall for your puns, even right now, at 5:22, looking at your photograph.

I sit here two thousand miles from you, sharing the same sunset view. I whisper to the winds to carry these words to you, and bask the air that you breathe with my kisses too. Then maybe it wouldn't be that far of a gap, even right now, at 5:22, falling in love with your photograph.

The stars hung low that night
To hail the girl who sat on the rooftop
Of a filthy run down cottage
At the end of the 'Homeless Women' lane

Her knees were scraped with callused fingernails
That bled against the chips on the wall she had climbed
To watch those pretty little things shine
And sigh with wonder against the solitary night

The emptiness in her stomach growled
But her wild eyes devoured the moon
Maybe the night resembled her tattered black dress
And stars were just despicable holes in the fabric of sky

Greasy auburn hair hung limp against her skimpy frame
Not many would find beauty on that haunted face
But there was a prepossessing in her pain
The way she never truly had things to lose
So she loved everything we seldom bother to.

It was a cold night on a full moon
The homeless girl breathed her last atop a red roof
No one remembers a slovenly girl with wild eyes
A homeless girl who died in her true home,
Her personal paradise.

Maybe she was only fifteen
But not many can claim
They've worn constellations on their body
Maybe she found her peace
And landed the stars while we were asleep
Maybe the way she died
Is the way most of us fail to live
Maybe we should love the way
A homeless girl once did.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
******* in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.

If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person.

I never understood what people meant when they say you can make a home out of a person until the day his smile began to look like the welcome mat to his eyes, and his fingers running through my hair felt like they've never belonged anywhere else.

I've written about love before him.  

I've written about hands on my skin and lips whispering the sweetest of words into my ear.
I've written about tongues that ran down my neck like honey.
I've written poems describing the motions of falling in love; comparing it to storms, and then comparing it to a summer day...

and then comparing it to pain.

I've written poems about April turning to June and winter turning to spring;
but I've never had a favorite poem of mine.
I've never had a favorite month or a favorite season or a favorite sound or even a place that felt like home. 

 But now I do.

We wake up to the sun slipping through the shades of his window; it's routine.
Time doesn't exist between him and I.
I turn to him, forcing my eyes open so they can trace the line of his jaw, the curvature of his lips, the frailness of his eyes slowly awakening to meet mine.
At this moment, I've found the one place that's home; and it isn't made of bricks and baseboards.
Home is curled hair, deep brown eyes, and a crooked smile.  Home is the hand that holds mine. Home is his voice when he tells me he loves me.

I thank July for bringing me love.

I'm thankful for the goosebumps he leaves on the surface of my skin. I thank the sound of his laugh for restoring the life in a part of me I thought was dying.
I've never written about love before him. I've written about hands that have touched me just to take parts of me with them when they leave. I've written about the motions of losing myself in someone who destroyed the most innocent pieces of me.
Love has never been so hopeful, so consistent, so pure.

This is my favorite poem. Home has soft eyes.