Ask me about my past
I'll unstitch every seam
Tear everything out and lay it all on the table
A scrapbook pulled from a house fire
I'll romanticize every bruise
I'm interesting

Ask me how I've made it this far
I'll show you every "I'm fine"
How I've welded it into an armor I can't take off
I'll turn every "I wish you were never born" into the reason you fall in love with me
I'm a liar

Don't ask me who I am
I'll try to tell you something from the heart, I will
But if you close the scrapbook and look up
You'll see that there's nothing left
I'll try to be something I'm not for you

But I'm nothing

I keep telling myself to not look back in anger,
but I wonder what I'd even look back to.
How much of you is left;
or has your Chicago been built over by a more Chicago?

Sometimes you can't see the stars
because the constellations are in the way
in the way that only your love
can be more you than you.

Some day that tea cup
will put itself back together
and it will all start to collapse;
hold me closely then?

Much has been said
against me
however,
I will not be spiteful
or allow hatred,
the beast of darkness
that resides
in the black jungles
of arrogance
and ignorance,
to infect me;
for that is no reason
to give way to anger.
So I refuse to let anger
ugly my heart;
for anger
is the scorpion’s poison
of peace
and love, it’s sunlight.
I choose light
contentment and happiness,
as poetry’s not a contest
of winners or losers;
it is the essence
of a poet’s soul.

At what point am I known as a poet?
After how many stanzas and rhymes?
I've written some thousands of words
Yet my words are a way to pass time

Drizzling raindrops
Masked the mans freckles and tears
His flawed attributes

There, I've written some words
That describe both dilemma and pain
In a haiku format, no less
But from that- what have I gained?

Poem is quite the strange lad
As is Muse, his wife just as bad
They lure in the brains
Of us simple and sane
And we write till uncanny and mad

Wow, I've done it again
I've written a poem in style
You know, I think I'm a poet
Maybe I've been one a while...

Blank ceiling
Disillusion
Like
Empty dreams
Hanging in the place of clouds
Each wish
That has ever been begged for
In a hot sleepy mist
Against the cool navy panes
Nose pressed firm
Chin and eyes
Pointed up
Asking the
Stars
Like splinters of
Broken silver glass
With
No desire to reply

How can i find me when I’m lost in you.