It's my duty to finish
This book of love poetry
But it's so hard
To do that when all I think of
Is the contempt I breath
With every drag of life's cigarette.

People **** me off
And I'm scared of talking on the phone.
I could once run miles
But now I'm dying in the mines.
Ambition was my strong suit,
My scars were my weapons
But I let love in
And changed for the better.

What are you supposed to do
When you're good at writing about desecration
And you're suddenly placed in front of
A communion wafer?
What happens when
You're so distraught
You're reading the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book
Just to feel closer to God?

What is there to say
When you've gone off the deep end
So quietly that those who love you
Have got no ******* clue
That it ever really happened?

Sometimes I wonder if you like me or if-
You just like the idea. The concept.
Seeing me is like seeing yourself, looking in a mirror.
How do I know that you love me, and not the concept.
You’re projecting.
It’s all conceptual.

If imperfect people create perfect love, then what are we?
If imperfections make you beautiful, did I become grotesque?

If the concept is more alluring than the truth, then is it a lie?
If the concept is better than me, then maybe I’ll never be your lover.

I've gone
From writing with flourish
To writing a novel
That only goes
"And then, and then, and then."

I've gone.

My favorite memories with you
Are by far the ones made
While dancing in your kitchen,
Sitting in silence in your room
With everyone else either at work or sleep.
I've longed for the calming ocean
To swallow me before
But never like this.

Whoever originally told you
That your eyes were angry ones
Was a person
Who had never seen love before.

I raised my arms
To greet the day
And I swear
I could feel God
Grab me by the wrists
And sling me against the ground
Again.

I've always written my best romantic poetry
When I was suffering
In one way or another.
Thank you
For taking the suffocating suffering
And hiding it under your pillow
While you hold me.