Tomorrow, the phrase
“I love you”
will belong to yesterday’s lips
my feelings for you
will belong to yesterday’s words.
Soon I won’t remember the chords
of your madness
or the taste of your sadness
sitting on my tongue like chocolate mints.
So in these last few weeks
we pull at the strings to rip
at the seams of us with ****** fingertips
cause in a slice of time
your name won’t belong in my rhyme.
You’ll be another past lover
that lives at the bottom of a shoebox
shuffled together with the love letters
of other men who swore themselves to me.
When my daughter fingers through
the pages dedicated to your eyes
I’ll softly remember you
throwing rocks at crooked pottery
from ceramics class. I’ll remember
that dark December and
your flimsy reflection through tinted glass.
I’ll remember what it felt
to be young, naïve,
and madly in love.

You find the reason to everything and anything because
it makes you feel safe, but I
--can't kiss you without you
wanting to tell me that
my eyelids flutter because my eyes
get dry and they need to protect themselves from all the
pathogenic **** that flutters around me but I'm
really just trying to get a better look at you,

why don’t you let me look at you.

Then I begin to cry and you say why tears are tears,
and that you wanted a “simple life” with me  but
youre too busy identifying the complexity of things
that you can’t even feel because they lay within your heart, not your hands.

I’m right in front of you but your
voice begins to raise and you speak the science of presence
and you tell me that i’m your soulmate because your subconscious doesn't always feel so alone when i’m standing right beside
you and that you need me to survive but you
can't always kiss me because you’re too busy saying that the reason why
I think you taste good
when you kiss me is because
we meant are for each other.

While I’m in your arms you begin to analyze
my paragraph of life and how
it fits so perfectly beneath yours.
But then you rearrange your words
and place some in between mine
and then I realize I’m the just the loosely placed parenthesis around your
syntax of life.

Every moment of a
sunset is pleasingly
different, as is my
love for only You

Every moment of life
which passes by, are
full of seconds of
change its true

But unlike some things
which could possibly
change from better into
something worse

His love will never
lose it value but
will steadily grow
in its priceless worth

For even if it changes
each day, the tender
warmth of His love
remains the same

And because He cares for
every one of us, it will
cleanse many hearts of
their pain

The strength of His
love lies in spiritual
power, a holy essence
which will never fade

His love is powerful
in its nature, which when
received in our hearts
will always stay

...for He is eternal love.

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

You cannot look at me
and I guess it is only fair.
I did call you a narcissistic
******* and I don't know,
the things you say make me
think of things my parents say
to me so it is only rightful of me
to automatically see that in you as well.

But you can be so wonderful.
You always say sweet words to me
and honestly I haven't felt a real love
like this in a long, long while.
Not sure where this is going,
or where we are going,
but I just want you to know that I
love you so much and I am
truly sorry.

When does it stop
When does being lost in translation stop
When does the reality of temporary become permanent
And reality a finality of time
When do shadows stop eating at the nothingness of everything
When do the questions stop and become the answers
When does relief come
Or does relief just falsify into a cast of the illusion of okay
"When does it stop?" I ask you.
"WHEN DOES IT STOP?" I scream at the shadow of your profile in the depths of my painted wall
And my skin feels tight as it is suffocating my shackled veins
"It doesn't, does it?" I ask you.
"IT DOESN'T, DOES IT?" I scream at my shaking hands full of fury and broken glass
I said I was sorry, that I didn't mean it
You said I did, you said I did
You said it was okay, you said it's okay, you said it's okay
Okay is nothing but an illusion of this fragmented world
It's not okay.
It's broken, it's fury, it's shackled and turbulent
It's glass in my palms made of tiny pills
That cut my throat as I swallow you down
In hopes you'll love me again.

You made me realize,you don't need a fist to destroy

Your hands were like summer

But your heart was pure winter

Two were suffocated
One stabbed
Four drowned
Three broken neck.
A massive shock for her,
articulated.

10 were over
None are forgotten,
7 irrelevant
but 3 where all 3.

She was asked to
portray all these
in a pie chart.

While he was eating
a blueberry pie.