One day
I will break
This pearl shell you' re hiding in
And I will discover brand new side of you
And you will see completely different side of yourself.
I will prove that you're a  pearl,
My precious.
My treasure.
„But I'm black“, you will say.
„Even better, darling,
even better.
It only means you're worth more than you think.“

Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?"
"Because I made him drink of stinging grief
Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out,
His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister

And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke!
That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'
He smiled calmly and grimly
And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "

Nothing makes
Me happier
Than to hear
Your voice saying
*I Love You.

I wanted you to hit me, baby.
I wanted to fall to the floor and
                   think, numb, that this
                                     wasn't how
          it was meant to be.
I wanted to hear your skin
                   on mine,
         one more time
                                 before we die.
      I wanted to think that
you were a mistake, that
             I could have done so much
                                         better
                                              but you know
                                      and we both know
that's a **** lie.

      I had a list of platitudes
ready for the day that you
                     gave in, and I could
                               finally let go.
            Ours is a ferocious tenderness,
                        one that relies on
     your (brute) force
            and my twisted dreams
                                    of reddened skin
and bloodied knuckles.
        I wanted you to hit me, baby.
    See, I'd already forgiven you
but there's nothing between us
              save our lips
              save our bodies pressed
                         flush, one encompassing
                    the other,
              save the ice in your eyes
                                 and the typhoon in my
                        chest
                               that I think might be
                                              my heart.

              Save his soul, o my God.
        Bring him home and I
                            shall follow,
           with iron in my lungs (how do I
                     breathe
                                       alone?)
                and steel in my throat.

****, I wanted you to hit me.

A family man, running spandexed and puffing
reaches into the stroller at the crest of the hill
as the day sighs away the last of its dusk
hands a three year old a flashlight
and makes her a secret-wink promise.
You'll move so quickly on your path,
it's your duty to carry a light with you
to keep you and others safe.

A stern man and a hot scratchy washcloth
removing a Spice Girls bubblegum tattoo from
the nose of a seven year old, molecule by molecule.
As soon as you get caught up in superficiality,
that's when you'll make mistakes. Don't make
mistakes that will last.

A medic man returns from a surgery
from a rural village with more kindness than money.
Lays a basket of apples and a banana loaf on the table
in lieu of a cheque and says:
There will be opportunities in your life for
your actions to define the kind of person you are-
always take them-

and never forget your common humanity.

An animal man bursts into the room
with a puppy as new as a sparrow
gamboling, loving, seeking faces and laps.
When choosing your first dog, look for
one that has more loyalty than shrewdness.
Choose your friends that way, too.

A tired man breathes deeply instead of shouting
at the quivering teen and the confession of the bumper
and the scratch that shouldn't have happened.
Hurt softly with the truth.... but never with lies.

A romantic man recounts his history
raising his eyebrows at the score of his frolics
and makes me swear to fall madly in like
with every soul who my heart should kiss-
but Love, reserve Love as the most sacred
of words, deeds, beings. When you Love,
you and he shall become one another,
and be one life.

A sentimental man wears a silver crown
at the head of his dinner table meditating in
silence after the laughs and mayhem of his
family clan have subsided to the fireplace.

He looks at his daughter.
She looks at her father.

The fullness of her adult face
and Polish eyes reflect in his irises
blue inside blue inside blue inside blue-
making any separation between them
redundant, intangible, like-
mirrors facing mirrors-
as the roots of the
Tree run as deep as soul itself
and he murmurs:

*The day you hear the cry of your firstborn child
is the day you discover the meaning of your life-

and nothing will ever, ever be the same.

I live behind a white picket fence
In the world of a wealthy child
I have everything I could want
Except the chance, or choice, to be wild
I live in a perfect brick house
With cobblestone drive and manicured lawn
I live in the perfect world
But I dream of what is beyond
My perfect white picket fence

I taste rapture in your lips & feel nirvana flood our spines.

A stack of bone lit fire & this day ends, today I should try,
to see into the future,
something waits for you inside, reach in & find your comfort.
Drink heavy & dance, a warm nose carving mistakes into your once supple face.

Leave it alone & cry. Leave it alone for my sake.
Call me from the basement's line.

Save the words

& a change of tone.

a change of pace.

_Oh, dear gods,

we came so close & stand so far,
from that glorious fountain,
from that glorious superstructure of
love & tainted fate.

Stay close & I'll recite gorgeous tales of defeat.
I will
paint your face with the shame of those forgotten,
not in a lonely way
& this is not
the only way to stop these rhymes
of

once again

hearts torn,

one heart torn, turning forever
sleeping on the floor,
wishing your blood flowed through me.

open veins to shreds.
grab me, taste me.
bound by chains.

once undone,
these thoughts shouldn't be should so heavy,
moving my fingers in time with you.

whisper, oh I'm crazy.

But in this world,
in this
dear,
sweet
perfect world,
where you & I
sit
& sing
& commit your face to memory.
Holding on to you.
in you, my flame burns bright,
this pace grows dark as the wet woods cry in rhythm,
thinking of me,
old,
their hearts still racing for me.
their souls transport all loss &
their souls transports heat.

If only I was your source.

If I was your only source,
of light

of shadow & pain

of a perfect metronomic

never ending sometimes;

you'd pass happy.
you'd know defeat,
victory & all forms in between.

& looking back I sense there are words sealed tight,
dates forgotten & stories sans ink.
sometimes,
oh my sweet beautiful muse.
There is a shadow & there is a child
& there is a window
& there is a lord to call upon
when nightmares grab tight
& bullets fly close to this heart
desperation glides across these strings
& a voice is born,
snuffed,
buried
& forgotten in all but me.
killing the self,
waiting for the bars to bend
& waiting for the structure to dissolve.

A ghetto grown & producing
infinite
words &
mistakes.

Clear up my past,
discontinue
& continue to
work on these studies,
take all in stride,
a slow,
pain filled walk.

As mentioned, we came so far,
so close
& retired our passions.

So we ask
how do we die?

& when will we know?

& this change of tone brings

a change of pace.

I feel alive,
I behold what's in it,
what's grabbing
& shaking my soul,
which is,
listening to this power.

I started writing poems years ago.
Someone said i even missed my calling,
which is kinda flattering but may also have meant i was pretty lame at my real job.
I get distracted by the Likes
Verse and vice,
Prose and price,
On the site.
Statistics and counting,
not lofty fodder for wit and imagination and love and bleeding.
But, I get distracted by the likes,
And I want them.
Natalie said they don't count twice.
Ooh, once I was even trending.  But I suspect that's a ploy to bait me.
Still, a time in the sun, even if just a coding device.
No real poet would find that proper.
Perhaps I'm just not a poet, or even poetic.
I suspect there's other evidence to indict me.
Please don't be too harsh, or worse, click away.
I want to write a verse that strikes a chord,
But I get stuck on just which ones to play.
Because I'm looking for the lightening bolt to turn yellow.
I have IRBD envy.  But not of verse but of what, or who follows.
For Likes.
I know thats lame and not what a real poet would do.
A poet of noble and lofty thoughts, of obtuse meaning and lyric wordsmithing.
With a cult-like following and others just trying to figure out what it means,
But they know the poets name, and that counts for something.
I'm impure and unworthy, or perhaps not talented
A poetic imposter, a fraud.
I've got the likes to prove that anyway,
If, that's what they prove.

The way a moonflower shies from the sun
So I shied from you
Turning my face away,
Placing myself in shadow
So that your light would not penetrate me.
In shadow I remain, until the night arrives
When I look to the sky,
Reaching for the moon and
The only light I can grasp to,
Wanting to scream into the torturous quiet.