Trying to teach you that can't is a broken spell,
a collection of words smothered in a fist,
deprived of touching can, before its magic had its knell,

The progenitors of these phrases drown in its graces,
they become the it of their own undoing,
husband and wife to guttural utterances,

Cloaked is the mirror with a window on full display,
smiling through your reflection, praying through convection,
seeking the angel's wings buried in the ground,

It's all dirt beneath their lips,
give them a spear they fancy it a fork,
a hook for their purposes,

There is no can't besides what is in there eyes,

There is no can't and above the bird flies,

There is no can't and here we find ourselves in our minds,

The law to them is of designs,
the life is what they inscribe,
there is no can't, but they can't.

I won't know until it's that way, that it will ultimately be,
some call these lines vapid, and ultimately that's what they'll be,

Smoke or vapor, hard drugs or paperwork, smiles or kisses,
lies or tales of false blisses, perhaps a wise story to gain a misses,

fingernails or the rope, both burn and can end hope,
one cries, the other won't even know,

ducks flying by, quack, quack, quack,
such a silly think can be such a needed crack,

***, drugs, and euphemisms,
The mister with a pen revealed a quack,

A trench coat full of waddly things,
administering precisely what it's like it seems,

care to mind only the seamstress, with thousand lake eyes,
and a beauty like you've never seen, pay only to her your mind.

Tricks of the trade,
when nothingness becomes something bold,
like that last number a paper did fold,
so you call and call,
playing a tone through all the halls,
and bridges falling down,
and houses no one has found,
in the midst of filled place people call a town,
with no air that doesn't walk brisk,
no stories sharing besides with a fist,
oh, how we see the things we wish to seed,
misery makes a mess and not just of me,
history is the best when it isn't your story,
or when you have a place that isn't this stormy,
and you're looking back and proud to hear his story,
of how he met her on some rainy day, and pain and clouds,
isn't the only thing she took away, because ultimately she gave,
and it's a perfect trial, fair and just, harmonious and without grave,
so she calls and he answers her name, until one gives, and steps,
past their hallway into yet another loving place, their bedroom,
their headroom totally unbetrayed by anything except play
loving the quarters and the pennies others throw away,
stopping never and only ever desiring to say, I,
my dearest, love you, and I swear I'll stay,
and it goes without saying, this
could never have been amiss
and I will never miss you
and I beat for you
and I for you
for you
everything.

So tell me sunshine,
how do you need to see,
that the weeds and the grass ain't just for me,

let me gaze past the fields,
and maybe baby,
there's a sunlight that can make me be,

everything that we ever will need,
darling the clouds are blue and the sky
is a sea, thinking about you as I
dream of we.

hold my hand, give me the sand,
ain't no reason to count what no one can,
that's how long I'll be doing this dance,
kiss me like no other can.

maybe we'll find, a fine of the land,
buried before us in this torturous
landscape before us, but
we already did, can you see what your smile did for us.

you're the sunrise, and I take with me,
a last letter that forever I can read,
in your eyes looking at mine,
there's no end, just our sun to rise again.

The time of your life, on repeat,
call it a sign of the times, a timely blessing,
a clock that seemed to run on by.

Oh, sweet darling,
what is it about you that I'm missing,
could it be the kisses, hugs,
seeing your eyes from above.

Might I miss just catching the gist,
of a longwinded poem, I barely missed,
focused on a screen, or in my mind,
while your prose outstretched it's vine.

Maybe it's something about following behind,
seeing the sun capture your mind,
glisten off your skin, because only I knew your sins,
or that I loved and never needed to remind.

Everyday, I call you,
and saw you, and hoped for you,
in someone like your kind, in image, breath,
or just your way of being kind.

Everything, is what I miss, my poetess, divine.

blue mold splattered on the wall,
darkness inundating like dust,

a soft white light painting the scene,
the closest thing to serene,
and yet so far away and faint,

Purgatory, immobility, a throne made of the floor,
seated, seething, seeding on their knees,
the shadows are alive, they are beings,

baptized in the black ocean,
where roars drown the waves,

their fingertips almost succeeding,
poking at the watery grave,

wearing a waterous veil,
proceeded by their monstrous screams.

It is silence, and cold is all you feel,
when you're drenched inside it,
and your pain has become steel.

Still and stoic, stunned, momentarily,
for the sake of not wanting to tarry,
though her eyes are starry
I suppose I am chasing the fiery,
like a proper torture puppet,
where pleasure is purely measured by the sounds she makes,
and I,
a pain filled pie,
promising to encapsulate a well packaged bespoke mind,
tailored to her tail and devilish wings,
let my crown be one that stings, if so she esteems,

roar and drag my nails against the sheets,
across the bedroom floor and into conspiracy,
teeming in a way that they would deem, simplified and undignified,
while you dig your nails in and I dream of your teeth,
do everything and all without leaving nothing undone unto me,

my promise is not to bawl, except of joy, that I'd devolve for the sake of your destitute ball. Trampling and fancying my fencing fall,
hearing me enamored through the halls, because I am what she esteems, and nothing is as it seems, unless she sees it fit,
and I throw her a romantic fit.

Go on, capture yourself capturing me, witness how it is that a rose falls, into a flower garden with no mystery to solve, for the only way is up, and the field is filled and sunlit. Might you say there's nothing to wit, just decadence to not be absolved but played with.

Your fire, I acquit.