Many hearts could be broken
by the smallest token
of your strange affections;

How delightfully crushed,
cause hearts always want too much
as such jealous and hopeful
****** beating things
that turn out to be less agile
and more perfectly fragile.

As for me I will treasure these
sweet poetic interludes
at a safe distance from you,
cause I am certain
that you could put a major hurting
on my heart.

I will get small sparks
for little parts
of playful verses
throughout the day,
then type and save
them to my phone.
Eventually, working them
into to something by the end
of the night,

but if I don't have
any inspiration by evening's end,
I will play some instrumental music
I haven't listened to yet,
look at paintings online,
and read some poetry
from Tumblr till something hits.

Oh dear,
I would like to borrow tomorrow,
steal your tears and sorrow,
sip the salty water
from your well weathered well heart,
spend all the stars like currency
to buy you a bright new hopeful spring,
and hear you sing of poetic dreams,
of dancing fiends
who happen to actually be
super friendly,
while a little serpent slithers slowly
out of curiosity to a spot where we
can sit laughing at all that scars
our creative spirits.

Perhaps, I lack patience.
I am rapacious
for more rapturous
word wonders worked
from your weirdly wired,
but beautifully inspired brain.

It is a shame
that true gems
are not given
the light they need
to sparkle spectacularly,
whilst dull coal figures breed
contempt and greed,
spreading the diseased seeds
of creative mediocrity.

We mere mortals
are not granted
greats spans of time,
cannot cross
the expanse to find
the coal has compacted
cause the fact is
that practice
will outlast us.

New beauty perceived
will be retrieved
long after death’s
dark and dangerous reprieve
has collected our tired forms,

but I prefer to be
awed by the artistry
that you share gracefully,
exposing exploding shards
of your rapidly beating heart
along with the other parts
that presently bleed poetry profusely.

I have passed out
tiny parcels,
perfect little
packages
filled with
my hopefulness.

Given the essence
of my impermanence,
pursued truths
to earn a bit,
but my restlessness
has me rushing towards
shocking storms
of lightning and loving
all that is a detriment
to my mental health.

A poet obsessive
observing and writing
perspectives I didn’t earn,
and in turn
passing them down
like I am a clown
all painted and streaked
while tears leaked,
aching for what
I never seek.

I have given dreams.
In fantasies
chased the lips of
someone I could love,
fantasized about sweet lies
as she would whisper sweetly
echoes of my feeling.

Poetry presented prosaically,
as everything I am, will be,
and was, with just a pinch
of what I will never see.

I am ill-equipped
to take a trip
down the bits
of a broken
rainbow road.

All sparkles
and glittering
a smattering
of shattering
glass reflections
that shred my
bare feet
as I am
journeying
down these
colorful streets.

I’d prefer
the more disturbed
shadowy
sidewalks
in the city of
forgotten loves
and lost memories.
A realm with
clouds that flit
from one
gloomy day
to the next.

I guess
I’ve just
become adapted to
grays and blues,
stray hues
that I use
to paint a world
where abuse
is just the dimming afterglow
of a happy ending tv show
where I learn a lesson
but don’t really grow.
I write but don’t know
why the sirens scream
and poets sing
similar sorrows.

Maybe, I should borrow
Cinderella’s glass slippers
so those rainbow shards
won’t bleed my feet,
and when I finally
fall asleep to meet
someone strange and sweet
my dreams won’t keep
waking me in tears.