Poetry written on cave walls
Of distant planets in other galaxies
Is still comprehensible to human
Hearts.

The stars look the same
From there.

They say the American flag planted
In moon dust is nothing but a
Sun bleached white piece of cloth
By now.

All things, it seems, given enough
Time and exposure

Become requests for
Peace
In the
End.

I'm not a poet
I never was one.
Where the words could build and wreck lives.
Mine caused only a ripple
Where the words could cause chaos
Mine let out only a whimper.

The words, they should be magical
But, mine knew no sorcery.

All my life, I spent it finding the exact words
The words never found me.
Also, I never quite got the hang of feelings
They were all so beautiful and ugly.
But words were all that remained
And I want them to stay close
within the wild musings of my reckless heart.

Darling she's the most beautiful piece of literature
you'd ever have had the pleasure of discovering
reading, indulging in, bringing to life
it's your fault, regret, mistake
that you tossed her to the side
because something less than average
caught your eye

You breathe music.

there's poetry
between your every
uttered word.

you own every room you
enter.
all is a shrine in your

honour.

I see paintings in the shapes of
your blood veins; ocean universes
in your tears.

when you cry, there's no fight.
just whispered discontentment,
comfort is the opposite of

argument.

you beautiful, little beast.
claws constantly concealed.
I kiss your paws.

see right through you.
love
it

all.

I've always said that the older
The soul, the fewer times

The three ugly words
"What about me?"

Have been uttered from
The mouth it possesses.

I wish I could oil the gears
Of your self worth with my

Every drop of compassion,
But this sudden flash of coldness

In my gut is that of a factory
Owner worrying ever so slightly

About a new sound in old
Machinery within the bowels

Of the buried bunker where they
Manifacture my every set

Of
Sympathies.