i used to be in love once
with someone
i thought only i
could love the way i did

i used to be in love
or at least what i thought love was
because i held her smile
with both of my arms spread wide
like my wrists were nailed
to the corners of her lips

whenever we said our goodbye's
i felt like a part of me
was taken away
and the hole that was left in my chest
was, as i convinced myself, one only she could fill again

i gave her everything
but i rubbed my eyes with salt
to mask the truth that she didn't care to do the same

i used to be in love once
with someone
i thought only i could love the way i did
but no matter how much i studied her
studied her every move
i never learned that to be in love
is not the same
as to just
love

because you never asked me
to be your saviour
i don't need to hold up your smile with my wrists
because yours would appear
whenever mine would light up your world

we'd say goodbye
and you'd carry a part of me
as i carry a part of you
and from then on
it became something we both shared
something
that encompasses any distance between us

i felt like i gave you nothing
but you tell me
that all you need
is me

they say i'm foolish
to rush a love like this
but i didn't seek it
the complete opposite rather
i pushed you away
and you pushed me away
but here we are

they say
you're not what i think you are
it may or may not be true
nevertheless, the response is
"shut the **** up. to hell with you"
because for once
i think this love is good for me

this time last year,
we went to rhema and you kissed me under the gazebo
and asked if i wanted to get back together

now i'm sitting in my room
wondering if you remember
the night i met your dad for the first time
and your sister told me i was adorable
wondering if you remember
holding my heart in your hands
and throwing it on the ground
telling me
*maybe this isn't working out

When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best of all colors.

                    No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.

As the tide washes away
The things we do or say
Or that which we want to fade away
Remain not forgotten
But become fractionally dormant
Inside the labyrinth of the mind
New truths are revealed with low tides
Salmon victoriously swim upstream
Until their end becomes seen
I am dusting off my dreams

I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.

Be the voice of the night and Florida in my ear.
Use dasky words and dusky images.
Darken your speech.

Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,
But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,
Conceiving words,

As the night conceives the sea-sound in silence,
And out of the droning sibilants makes
A serenade.

Say, puerile, that the buzzards crouch on the ridge-pole
and sleep with one eye watching the stars fall
Beyond Key West.

Say that the palms are clear in the total blue.
Are clear and are obscure; that it is night;
That the moon shines.

laying in my bed, trying to write this poem
Being in a small town, wishing somewhere bigger and brighter was my home.
A place where people don't sleep.
Where the night owls thrive.
A place where everything is always alive.
I look outside my window and see nothing but darkness and an empty street.
Nothing but one street lamp, how does everyone feel complete?
Do people ever get lonely and want something more?
Doesn't anyone always want an open door?
I want to look out my window, and see action.
Taxi's and people and human interaction.
Not some empty street that's a depressing distraction.
I want something more, bright lights galore, a place where sleep doesn't have to be an option anymore.