i can
never
sleep...
or
maybe i'm
never
in truth
awake

As Billy Joel is pouring out to the listener,
Of a tale of patrons in a bar,
I think of what would happen to my works when I die.
Maybe I get a couple collections printed but they never really sell,
And years after my death,
One such book is found in the piles of books in an antique store.

Maybe it's a curious individual,
Amused by the art embossed on the book,
Or maybe he is an actual fan of poetry.
Maybe it's just a kid who is thinking old books are cool.

Either way the individual would read my works, gets a whole lot of hubub about it,
And years after my death I am talked about as an unsung poet of my time.

Novel idea right?

be        au      tifu           lu      ng              ra              teful              talent­e
dd       iff      icult          lo       vi              ng              messy           suppo
 rti       ve     spitef         ul       w             arm            jealous          caring
  cr      az     ychar          m      in              gs               martd           epress
 ing   br    av      et         **     ug            htle             ss     ge          ne
   ro  us     inc     on       sid     er             ate              ad    ap          ta
   ble m     oo       dy      co      m             pass            io      na         te
    stub      bo        rn      af       fe             ctio             na      te         cr
    itica      lp          ra      ct       ic            al  ar            gu     m         en
    tati       ve           w     itt       y            un  pr           ed     ict        ablec
    our      ag            eo    us      to     ­      uc   hy          friendl          yrese
     ntf      ul             he    lp      fu           li      m          patien           tflirty
      sa       rc            as     tic      in          te      re          sting             boastf
      ul       cu           rio    us      in          fle     xi           bl    er          el
      ia        bl            e      cl     ­   in         gy     cre         at     ive        ta
      ct         les         s       **      ne         st     emo        tio     na       ld
      isc         ipl       ine    d        fo         rcefulsex         yse    ns       iti
      ve          su       lle      n        m        od         es        tf        ru      st
      ra            tin   ge         n  thus         ia           st        ic         hy    po
      cr             iticalp          lucky          cl            um     sy        am   usingp
      os             essiv            ecalm         in            g        sn         ide   friendl
       y              pom             pous         ad            ve      nt          ur    ousch      
      ar     ­          ism              atic           br             ok     en          and perfect

i left the house just after midnight and you were returning
brief warmth as i passed you with him in the doorway
(am i wrong)worlds between us revolve in contradiction
and you played with his hands as i glanced, mourned, and departed
and it seems peculiar as time goes on that i should still think of you in this way
(what am i missing)you persist in myself,clutched to my heart like ice in my hand
and all i can think to say is that if i were to see the milky way’s circumvolution with the eyes of van gogh;
to hear a nightingale trill in delight with the ears of debussy;
enjoy the sweetest of wines and the warmest of nights;
the fiercest of romances and the harshest of wounds;
these would be to nothing
as you are to me
(and if my heart still stops when you stun my skin with your touch
and my breath
catches
deep in my chest
you,my sweet love, have moved me more than the entire heart-rending terror and beauty of existence)

She'd written a verse
   on wandering love;
      of hearts that yearned to stray--
         it spoke of home, and now I yearn
            for all that she has
               to say.