The moon hung lazy in hazy city sky
the air silent and pure - untouched
and she was the anima to your animus
that pretty little thing you sat in an empty parking lot with
talking until three AM
she was touching her hair a lot
and you remember reading something about body language
which said that means she likes you
courage isn’t being born standing tall
courage is knowing when to follow your love off that cliff
courage is faith that somehow she will be there
waiting to catch you
a safety net made of shy smiles
and a nervous mouth filled with run-on sentences
and paint stained hands on your ribs
a soul isn’t some ephemeral entity trapped inside of you
a soul is the anger and lust and passion that directs you
all of these words are silly little fickle things
pigeons which take flight the moment you get close
all of these actions are breathless, frail things
old men and women determined to take the stairs
she told you that you she had fun
you said me too
and I want to see you again
she said me too
sitting there in that empty lot
the heater barely on in the car
beneath a canvas full of long dead stars
you took a leap off of that cliff
and for a moment
you forgot how to drown

I've been in a writing slump lately. I don't know why. I've been focusing on being a real human being again - getting back into school, being more sober, working more, making more money, working out, being more social. But whenever I find the time to write I just feel tired and want to sit on my *** watching tv. I don't know, this is just a rant I guess. I'm going to try to work on it. Keep scribbling guys- Harry J. Baxter

Me - “My Mum’s getting worried” skinny
You - “God I want you right now” beautiful
Us - “Are they hanging a painting up?” loud
It’s release kindled with belief
that you could find that corresponding jigsaw piece
and I’m a corner piece - easy
and you are an outdoor cat - hardly tame
in that pair of black workout pants
and that flowing dark hair
You are like Spanish
beautiful, strange thing I can’t get my tongue around
I’m like somebody lmaoing on a chat room
efficient with my lack of substance
laying on the bed watching you get dressed
I drag on my imaginary post-******
because I know you hate the smell of the real thing
unless its staleness is imprinted deep in my clothes
this disease has no known cure
the way the images slideshow their way behind my eyes
the way my blood is rerouted
every time I catch a smell of your sweat
or a memory of your taste
like faces on passing trains -
eyes locked momentarily
I went from student to drop out to student to lover of life
if life were a metaphor for the way you move those hips
you said you don’t know how to dance
well your tongue must’ve been taking night classes
maybe one day I’ll ask your last name
maybe one night you’ll say mine like a confession
but until then, special little stranger, keep bringing that *** over to my place

I’d write you a love song
but my ears lack the right components
and I would write you a ballad
if I actually knew what that is
I would make the hands on the clock
stand still so that we might share an infinity of moments
but all of my clocks are digital
I would buy you a whole closet and then some
fancy restaurants and swanky clubs
but I have five bucks and bills to pay
I would be honest with you
only I have such a hard time being honest with myself
I would be brave at all times
only I am riddled with fears of what comes next
I’d paint you a picture of perfect
but perfect is a word made up to make us want more
I’d give you more
but right now I feel I’ve got nothing left
I’d love you and be with you
but I only want what I can’t have
I’d be everything you need
only I’m a lazy assed poet
so I wrote you this