This is stupid
and stereotypical,
I know.

Every poet asks themselves,
"Am I really a poet?"

Every poet reflects on
their surroundings, their life,
their thoughts.

Every poet has been sad
more than once
in a day.

We're all emotional,
we're all craving release,
an outlet to drain away
the sorrows,
to give our feelings
a physical form.

But in this poem,
I want you to know something:

it's okay to not be okay,
it's okay to feel like ****,
it's okay to give up.

It's okay to give yourself to pain,
let go of your surroundings and
shrink into yourself.
It's okay to want to die.

Do you know why?

Once you understand this
and acknowledge it,
you are free to change.

You are free to pursue whatever
happiness you desire,
to give yourself to bliss
rather than to guilt.

It's okay to want things,
it's okay to feel undeserving
when you do.

It shows you're not stuck
in one place,
intentionally or not.

You are human,
forever changing and
evolving.

You are still young and growing.
So make your mistakes while you
still feel the need.

My dear,
you are not perfect.
You will never be perfect,
and that's okay.

Because if you were perfect,
it wouldn't be you.

The rains stopped
I gazed at the world outside
It's a mess
I dropped my pen
I crumpled my paper
And crumpled another one
For there are no poems to write now
There are no words to feed on
- a poet's dilemma

The rain stopped
And the cynical people swiftly scattered
Out from their temporary shelters they cam
Longing for home
Longing for sleep

Forest inquires:

How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
        and choose the poem's alignment?


                                                  an­ answer forms:

this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means

alignment -  the appropriate relative position

we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
                                                                ­                        from the Theory of Poetic Relativity

                                                   ­             i love your question;                              hold it to my nostrils,          
                                             ­             smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
                                                                ­      
 kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple   soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;

                                 answer no good, wholly insufficient?
                                        perfect.
                          as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note

                              
                            ­                        the earth has moved
                                our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
                                    time and space have appropriated our prior
                                          
relativity

when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading  

and what was


**right before has left and the center has moved again

Becoming gold diggers,
the myths, without
ism and orthodoxy.

The creed will not observe.
I will say, I am the god
of ruins.I offer my inadequacies
to be punished.

The passions were rising.
You **** yourself to get the
space, the privacy.

Where the theme ends?
The religion has only absurd
quotations.You always involve the
Almighty- for any fall,
any bloodshed.

The tricks played by blessed
saints.You would always sleep in dark.
Eyes the faded gems.

Strands and strands of my hair
On the ground
I’m twisting, I’m balding
I watch the minutes and seconds rake

Strands and strands of my hair
From the time
I stayed put on the ground
But a **** of cutting wood remains

Widening and splitting
Deep in my body

I see me now
I’m loud

After many years, a small seed
Under earth, a lost child
I was never this loud
But I can hear me now

The moan of these branches
wrap around me like wires
My weary throat
tightening, tightening
with nothing to show

From a tongue in its comfort
Long impaired in the silence
Hushed, hushed
till I blacked myself out

And now my roots rip
above land
they
hold
on
like desperate hands
now that I must
get ready to leave

And the minutes and seconds,
won't wait for me

I cannot sow leaves
back to a tree

Take my name plate
To the farthest of gates

It is too late
It is too late

*We must now
rake
rake
rake

My beautiful flower
opening eyes sparkling
Petals blossoming
facing the sun this morning
Light of love in your heart
strength at the core
sensitive and wise you are
my love let go of your worries
Feel this moment
be proud of the woman you are

I watched as the rain pooled in the wells of your cheeks,
The shadows fought for dominance between the cracks in your teeth.

I watched as the light left your eyes,
Your wandering soul pulling its way out of them.

I watched as your breath fought to make your chest rise again,
Hammering its way up and down, like a jackhammer on a mission.

I’m sorry that I saw stars in your eyes,
And I fell for you, yet I wasn’t there when the light left.

I’m sorry I saw flowers within your heart,
And I picked a few, but I wasn’t there to pick you up when you fell.

I’m sorry I heard birds sing each time you took a breath,
And I held a few of those birds, but I never let go and you suffocated.

I’m sorry that I fell in love with your smile,
But I got nervous and left to quickly.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry for loving you,
Because regardless of the nights we spent smiling,
I left and you fell apart.

And lastly I’m sorry,
I’m sorry I never told you I was falling apart too

I am a frisbee
a boomerang
a stone bounced across the pond
I am the sand between my toes

bounded only by my imagination ,
my goals,
my sight my neurosis                
a slight handicap

when free to roam I seek
the highest tree climb
as high far up as i can
possibly be

my eyes cannot focus on all
the beauty
here from higher ground
they see peace and love
everywhere

I climb and seek companions
to tread the hill the high mansions
god has left for us together

they are abounded by imagination
empathy and feel
gated by greed lust and hate
you have to climb your
way over that

and there it is
I see it now
a small light burdened by our doubt
cresting ,
trying to that hill over there,

grasp hands hope, imagine everyone,
force can be used for good
if leveled is  the playing field.