I like my body when it's without your body.
It feels longer, stronger.
More complete.
I am not trying to compete to be the object of your affection anymore.
I am more than just your cutlery or the metal albums you hoard.
When I roar: The ground shakes beneath the feet I once thought needed to be so small.
I can call on my inner strength.
I’m renewed and rejuvenated

I’ve debated going back to you, fighting to get with you.
But you’d never go to war for me.
I see now that there is a sea that separates us
How little there was keeping us
Together, so I let her.
Be the boundary between us.
(She deserves better.)
But you broke us. Bent me backwards. (Buried me beneath sand.)
Now I stand on it: I heated my grave make glass, I thought we’d last.

But we’re passed now and I prefer my body; when it’s without your body.
It’s longer, stronger and more powerful.
I was a prologue to a burning book.
A shattered tea cup.
I like my body when it’s without your body.
Because it’s mine.

Blank Verse.
I only ever write poems about people I want to ****.
Fingeratively speaking anyway.
(Jesus my puns are bad.)
I’ve had some semblance of balance in my life.
Up to this point.
There’s a joint in her hand and she looks like the sea.
Her eyes glazed over like sunsets.
I’ve got a beer in my fist.
First of many, and I mainly want to kiss her.
Caress her, I hardly even want to **** her.
Creep down her spine with my lips and cradle her neck with my fingertips.
She’s got that hair that holds itself up.
Like it’s keeping her up.
Like her hair’s a hot air
Balloon, is that rude?

cough syrup
drops: from your sullen mouth,
gapes and invites the flies to make their
home. Your mind is a maze
making me yearn for it,
How do you tick?
What lyrics stick in your head?
Where do you hide your dead?  
Flies flicker, stuck to the sweetness
of the syrup bottle
I am similarly enamored
captured, struck by your
****** in, by the potential for sin.
for the taste of the sickly sweet
cough syrup on your skin.

My mother’s hands are soft as sand. She says something about where I'm supposed to be in my life and I'm nervous she thinks I should be standing closer the closure, she knows I'm not who I thought I'd turn out to be.
My mother’s mother made her the worrier she is today, and the warrior she had to be to get by.
The day my mother’s mother passed we mourned the progression of the woman we thought of as freedom.
Family has always had a huge part of my heart.
Now it's tattered and torn apart, everyone is aging and graying.
I'm only gaining so much knowledge on the subject.
I could write for hours - there is so much rage drumming against my rib cage.
I've saved enough sanity to grapple with the thought of losing you.
Looking at her now I see that she's been on the same road as me.
The mother of my mother made her promise I'd be better.
My mother's hands are as soft as sand - her sun burnt country betrayed her and now she huddles in the frozen north.
There's nothing here but our snow stung crowd.
My mother makes me smile, suggests it as fall back if my straight face falls.
I've never been able to keep anything straight - least of all me.
My mother made me, and I'm molded by her strength branded hands.
Soft as sand.

Your tongue could start forest fires
With the songs you sing, you could spring winter forward.
You could taste like tomorrow, your trials could all be amounting to counting sheep next to me.
Your little words wrinkle foreheads and cause the catastrophes of nations.
You with little breath bring forth the wildest of worries from the wandering minds.
You of little touch take armfuls of truth and tackle the tortured.
You with mostly full mouth make magic when you tap your tongue against the roof of your mouth
Your rough and ragged hands rust around the edges like the sounds you make when the laugh escapes your raging soul.
You hold onto hope like masters picking up pieces, you could make peace with your mouth piece.
Picking at the scabs on your fingers, focusing on us.
On the ground they avoid you.
You with the sunken skin and swollen eyes – ******* on the end of that cigarette.
You’ve convinced yourself it’s all a good dream.
Days musty like the back of your car when we drive on the high way wondering which way we go.
You with time tattooed soul – sulking about the little time you have.
Holding onto the fear you foster under your ribs.
You with the smile I’d rush rivers to keep under my pillow
You twist your tongue around my image – wake to find me further from grasp.
Smoking grass holding onto the hash.
Hoping you have an interest in me.

You never said you were scared, you never needed to.
You never thought I cared, but you and I adhere like super glue.
You have yellow teeth like a sunrise and you curse like caviar and I crave you like candy.
Can I be your desire? A drunken phone call on a Friday night,
You never said you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.
Your eyes showed more truth than the circles we chased around the subject of who’s who.
And can I be with you? – I don’t need a train ride at midnight or a candle lit calling I just need your dry throat, coughing out last minute lies about not needing another hand in the darkest parts of the night.
Your soul has the shaping’s of something that sounds like heartache, beats like butchering romance and hurts like needles marking up my arms like foot-steps rushing away from what’s really going on in my mind.
You never spoke the words I wanted to hear, but here we are.
I never said I wanted to drench you in kisses.
Cover you with caresses.
I want to cater to your bad behavior and serve as a substitute for the sugar high
I never said that I kissed you in the rain, and again and again.
I never said we stood outside of that man’s house and held hands in my head.
I never said the space in my bed, could have been filled with you. – I didn’t think I needed to.
Maybe I do.

There is a homeless man sitting on the step where we first kissed
and I missed the mark by about a mile, and all I wanted to do was make you smile
with my mouth around your soul, you've got a tight enough hold on me as it is and I'm still wondering about giving in.
I wanted part of the sin, and I wanted us to begin.
now look at the trouble we're in.