dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

his lips could destroy worlds
I told him.
and he smiled that smile.

If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.

inhale.
exhale.
quickly grab the sharpest item in sight.
the room is dimmed and the lights are shallowly lit.
you feel alone.
there's no one left.
after countless talks with the counselor, your family, and friends;
you realize your only companion is yourself.
memories race by in your mind as the blade digs itself into your thin, soft skin.
the opaque, red blood coming out of your flesh reminds you of that night you cried in your room, wishing you had an escape.
now is the time.
you feel relieved.
as the words "anger", "stress", and "sadness" escape from your veins, falling, dripping onto the carpet.
this is not pain.
this is a coping mechanism.

Hello beautiful
Do you feel it?
The dreams you had
Coming true

You are beautiful
Are you beautiful?
At least I think you are
It is my truth

That what you feel
Is what is real
Do you feel beautiful?
Do you feel love?

Just a throwaway poem
For someone that I'll never know
Someone who is beautiful
Its my way to say hello

So hello beautiful
There are fires in hell
And storms on the seas
And darkness in between the points of light
There is loss in life
And pain in love
And hope in the bitterness of sorrow
And then there is you

Hello beautiful

life and death intertwined in a mysterious embrace
meaning embedded in the flesh and carved into the soul

beauty finds a way even in suffering and in the end
we all become one