Have you
ever written
poetry
so
persnal?

It's like a tattoo
on
your skin?

But an open
secret

To the one
you let it
read?

Hoping they catch on
To the
real poetry
written in
between?

To the
tear drops that aren't on
the page

Because you held them
in

To the sweat on the
palms of your
hands
from
the pen
that kept dripping
ink?

And as the
beauty fades away
and they become

just words
on a page

they look back at you
and you at they

and for a second
you can see

just passed
their worried eyes
and their
frayed jeans

( or their trembling lips)

that they know
exactly

what it means.

There is a room
In a small highschool

Where the teenage
Heart aches
Came to die

On a couch where
the poets
came to lie

And contemplate
The diffrence
between dying
and suicide

While the future
Directors
organized

Asking whether
she was ugly enough
to be beautifully alive

Or just dead inside

Such a place
Such Liberty

Watch your children

For in this
On the couch where
the poets came to lie

and the directors
conversed

in the small highschool

There
They learned what it feels
Like to be  alive

I want to
Hear your voice
As clear as I
Can hear

That Dixieland
***** Voice
Of Hers

And The Acoustic
Set
Behind Her

Chanting  The Rythm
Out Of Words
That Held Meaning
Only Two
Years Ago

But If I hear your
Voice
It would Have
Changed

With
Time
And Age

And I would
Have to Strain

To Remeber
The Little
Boy

I met long ago
Once Upon
A September

I want your voice
Over an acoustic
Guitar set

In the back of my car
as we drive
Past the beach

Clean
and Pristine

Earsing our Sins
With The Petrol
On the Sand

Because when
I get up
Every Morning

I can almost
Not breathe
Between Our distances

And truthfully
I Can't stand it.

Figuratively speaking
You are the smoke on
My wind

Empty from Promise
And Eager
To be

Photographed
With The title
Underneath

' The One Left Behind'

I am not a self promoter
I do not write my name on mirrors
So you can see it.

I do it neither for art
Or exposure

I  do it for the simple
Pleasure
Of seeing all those syllables

Forming me

On a surface
So Illegal

That
Its reflecting
Surface

Is staining me

Pandora is suggesting
Music my mother would like
As if to say

You sound so much older
than you are

With those
Dark tinted glasses
And red blood roses
Running threw your head

Stumbleupon
Is treating me
To verses  
In latin

As if to suggest
I'm so otherwordly
That I sound
Pulse Dead

HelloPoetry
keeps on sending me
Poems about
***

As if to say
I'm not stupid
Enough to let
you in
my bed


Life
Keeps making me Dial
Numbers Written
In Red Pen
On Bathroom Stalls


Just to Ask,
Do
You
Know
Where
Your
Teenage
Daughter
Is

Right Now?