Look at you
standing there;
fumbling at the clasp
of your bra,
stripping down
to the core,
hoping I see you,
hoping I save you,
as if I'm the
cure for
who you've become.
You plead with me
--breath of a cheap,
distilled liquor--
to let you stay.
You ask me if I
think you're pretty.
Sure, I respond,
sure you're pretty.
Hell I haven't met
many naked women
standing in my
bedroom who aren't.
But I can't save you.
I'm not the one who
will keep you honest.
I'm not the one to kiss
you on the head
and tell you goodnight.
Sure you're pretty, and
sure I'll *******, baby,
but I'm not sure
if I can fix you.

he wasn’t just an other ship that sank in my sea
he was the drought that left the whole thing empty

denuded of cover
she stands all alone
without a leaf
upon her timbered bones
above in sombre grey skies
an uncaring sun hides
winter's whipping wind
lashes her hide
there she shivers
for want of warm light
there she quivers
through the gelid days and nights
the bitter iciness
ever staying
with the freezing vetch
so cruelly parlaying
the end doth call
she dies
she dies
she dies
in winter's cold pall

Black ink against white paper,
You took the wrapper off your favorite flavor,
Eyes met mine and begged for a favor,
I resisted,
But you insisted,
That I,
Talked to you late at night,
Like the moon does with its favorite star,
You,
Shined brighter than the sun,
Reflected and spread like dust against mars,
I couldn't resist your cuteness,
So I made jokes to explain my rudeness,
And you laughed and forgot about the brokenness of our track
I took your heart and pinned it up with a tack,
I wrote words of meaning on your ventricles,
Until one day my pen pierced one of your valves,
It was my fault your blood spilled on the floor,
That familiar feeling of guilt came knocking on my door,
You took your heart,
Ran away to mend your wounds,
Treated me with silence until my loose paper was few,
The poems flew,
And most were for you,
My pen is out of ink and now my heart is out of room.