Dear last meaningful kiss,

It's hard to start this,
because long ago I was in such a bliss,
I dont know what to write,
but this cigarette in my sight,
is counting down the end of our night
The guitar is playing its final thoughts
and I reflect on the what to do and not's,
as I start to write the script again.
People stare at me as I write this aloud,
for I want everyone to know, I am not proud,
that this even exists,
but it does.

Your face is what haunts me the most.
When I stare at the coast,
fantasies of memories arise,
but vanish as I feel the falseness of lies,
creep upon me,
like a villain in a play,
but these thoughts I must put away.
They won't get me anywhere.

Except a lonely stare,
into peoples hearts that I seem to try and confide,
but in this rule book I'm writing I must abide,
and leave your side.

I dont think you get what this hurts like,
to ride a bike,
into nothingness of blank words,
that I reflect upon in past writing.
But back to the script I keep fighting,
there is no shading or lighting,
just another poem that I follow.



Dear the love that was never true,

I wonder if your writing too,
or if you even know you,
cause you like to dance around this heartbreak,
like an old soul tries to avoid youth, just for the sake,
sake of wondering what to do next.

As I write this script on my invisible paper,
I have to remember too add the hooded caper,
that's nestled in the shadows, that I frankly never see,
and add reluctantly.
I will look back and think that part wasnt necessary,
but my heart and eyes are wary,
of knowing when to put down my pen.

This will be a sad thing to write,
because night,
is sadly ending,
with the stars starting to fade,
I must abide,
with the fears that reside,
that I must tap onto this screen,
and make sure in this last hurrah, you dont seem mean.




Dear the one who use to be the spark in my nod,

I hear many applaud,
but I wont let myself smile, for this love story shouldn't have ended,
or maybe it hasnt just yet, and just has bended.
Mind is amended,
the wrong doings of past fames,
I can remember the actors I write, but not their names.
As I put my script into print,
and watch the masses on their screen,

"I must say I hate the ending myself,
but it started with an alright scene."


From the heartbroken kid,
with love.

I shook hands with the monster under my bed tonight, correction: I dragged the monster out by his ankles and I introduced myself and I shook his hand. It was cold, and it felt like you. It was cold, and I wanted to hold it forever, I really did. Maybe it would make up for lost time and all those chances I never took with your fingertips when I had the opportunity.  The truth is, I didn't meet a monster. I met a childhood fear and some dust bunnies and a little bit of my own self; the truth is, monsters don't live under your bed because they lay beside you, under your sheets, at times on top of you, maybe they are spilling lies in your mouth and whispering secrets to your teeth, maybe monsters live in your mirrors, calling you names, maybe monsters touch you in your sleep, maybe monsters have big hands that feel like home but then you remember you're a runaway.

i will never love you as much as i love the silence of my neighborhood right now that reminds me that although it's lovely not to hear from my usually loud neighbors, it's gruesome to hear absolutely nothing from you. the sound of your voice is more comforting than any quiet. i find more peace in your laugh than anything.

i will never love you as much as i love the snow covering the ground. this may be because i am so used to the feeling of frostbite that i have become numb to the pain and i am more grateful for the loss of my sensitivity than i am for the loss of your toxicity.
i still hope you know that neither i or the snow intended to harm you and we apologize if we did, although i'm not sure what the **** i could have possibly done but care about you more than i knew i ever could.

i will never love you as much as i love flowers and my books and the feeling of cold water running over freezing hands and green tea settling in an empty stomach and watching children truly enjoy the limited years they have until their first heartbreak when they stop finding joy in the little things and think it can only be found in the mouths of people who fed them lies like you fed me promises but in reality their tongues are snakes and their saliva is venom and they are as dangerous as the amount of alcohol they put in their bodies so they can feel something or maybe they don't want to feel anything at all because these cuts are not wounds on our knees that can be healed with bandages and antibiotic ointments. these are cuts on our wrists as deep as the sea would we be willing to drown in for someone who will never feel the same way for us as we do them and our upper thighs that we wish were as thin as our hearts.

i will never love you as much as i love the smell of old paper and stage lights and pointe shoes and gliding through the air or across a wooden floor of the dance studio i feel terrible for betraying by thinking i could find a home in you when my home is in the mirrors that i criticize my body i should have never let you defile in and the floor that has always caught me when i felt i was falling over the edge even when i didn't want it to because all i wanted was you.

i will always try to love myself more than you loved me

Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled

It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness

and refuse it a name?

What?

You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?

I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth

Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.

Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.

Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.

The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.

If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.

Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.

Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.

When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.

As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.