You claim that you're no poet,
That you lack the gift of words,
Yet your notes convey such meaning,
Leaving me filled with the gift of love,
So I respond forget the poetry,
Pretty phrases and simple rhymes,
Continue writing as you do,
As I will love you for the rest of time.

I want to write a poem
That will set you free from harm
I want to write a poem
That you can hold nicely in your arms
I want to write a poem
That has it's own personality
I want my poem to dance freely
On the edge of imagination and reality
I want it's softness to put you to sleep
I want it to hold you with it's warmth
I want it to entertain you with it's playfulness
I want it to be the readers friend

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

It's a laser light show!
Fit for all ages!
Just don't look too hard at people's faces,
you'll see how strung out they are.
Pick your poison, smack, speed or stress,
we got it all.

Bring your daughter!
Bring your grandma!
Just don't look down the back alleys,
you'll see kids shooting dope,
and mother's selling their bodies.

Inbreds!
Racists!
We got them all,
come and see them before the city locks them up.
But wait!
For a limited time only,
get a free half gram of baking powder with any order of ******* (you must purchase at least one gram for the offer to apply).

Two words,
that don't mean much.

Put them together and you
gain a little more meaning.

These words,
nor any other i could write,
would ever be able to describe
that which i feel for you.

You make me happy,
and adding a title to our happiness
makes it all the more sweeter,
and i could not tell you why.

But i don't need to,
because i can feel it,
and i try my best to make you feel it
and ******* it, i think i do.

You are not a person,
******* it,
you are a nebula.
You don't have skin
you have island universes of stars
and your hands aren't hands
they're the whole ******* solar system branched out through your fingertips.

I can't look at you
without feeling like I'm spiralling through your galaxy
without losing breath
because after all
there's no oxygen in space

But the worst part is your eyes
those great opal voids
your infinite ******* chasms
that engulf me every time

And I always thought I'd be scared in space
like it's too big, too empty, too unexplored
but here I am
floating
not scared at all

He is far away now.

Since I first wrote about him,
we've grown quite a bit closer.
Reading poetry in his smoked out van using hushed tones.
******* can be a verb but to him it's an adjective,
he'd use it often;
"I ******* love that girl, Nolan"
"That's the ******* ****, man"

We crouched under an awning,
cigarettes in hand, trying to escape the rain.
We needed to read no poetry then,
we were poetry, him and I.

He'd put his arm around me
while I vomited.
He understood I was sick because of seeing her with him, it had nothing to do with *******,
but he was more than willing to pretend.

I miss that man,
Bertran the Man,
who stands with cigarette in hand,
atop his white van,
hearing the cheers of those not fans.

I love that man,
for he is good and whole and poetry