Sometimes I sit down to write,
and realize that it's such a plight.
But I can't stop for tears to leak,
'cause my assignment's due this week.
It isn't easy, that's a fact,
to make lines rhyme with metered tact.
So hopefully my luck runs thick,
'cause sometimes writing make me sick.

Who is to say what a poem may be, a poem is free,
Tearing itself from your box, finding where it needs to be on this day or that,
Finding the eyes that are looking, seeking, scouring for an answer.
It is the answer to the question it presents by existing, what am I?
I am here.
A poem is a matter of life and death, inconsequential as a speck on the ground,
Raising and destroying worlds, empires, men, thoughts,
Ideas.
A poem is the reason to wake, the reason to stay, the reason to feel, the reason to
Love.
It is...
Everything.

If I tell you you are my sun and stars,
it is only because you stole them from my
sky and draped them over your shoulders
like a fur pelt apathetically ripped
from a now naked and ****** bear.
If I say you are my moon and dreams,
it is only because you greedily plucked
it from my eye and strung it up with that
chain around your neck, so that it can
light the vile back alleys of my nightmares.
If I tell you that you are my beating heart,
it is only because you hammered and
twisted until it fit comfortably
around your finger so I wouldn't know
the beating of it without your hand.
If I say you are my errant soul,
it is only because you crushed and
ground until only fine powder remained
and brushed it below your brow so I wouldn't
know it's pull without looking to your eyes.
If I ask why you took my being and vanished,
it is only to try to make you think.
I already know the answer.

because in your laugh there's something more than joy,

because in your smile there's something more than passion,

because in your soul there's something more than grace,

because in my eye there's nothing more than you.

Who is to say what a poem may be, a poem is free,
Tearing itself from the little boxes it's forced into, finding it's true meaning elsewhere.
Finding where it needs to be on this day or that.
Finding the eyes that are looking, seeking, scouring for an answer.
It is the answer to the question it presents by existing, what am I?
I am here.
A poem is a matter of life and death, inconsequential as a speck on the ground,
Raising and destroying worlds, empires, men,
Ideas.
A poem is the dirt, the foundation, the walls, the roof, the lamps, the
People.
A poem is the reason to wake, the reason to stay, the reason to feel, the reason to
Love.
It is...
Everything.

we need to hold hands more…
                                                           ­       look into each other’s eyes more…
we need to be honest about important things more…
                                                           ­                            tell our secrets more…
we need to be alright with silence more…
                                                           ­                              take chances more…
we need to let go of the past more…
                                                          p­ay attention to the little things more…
we need to fight for ourselves more…
                                                           ­                       watch the clouds more…
we need to talk to the trees more…
                                                           ­                       listen to the wind more…
we need to move on more…
                                                           ­                                          laugh more…
we need to hold on more…
                                                           ­                                        forgive more…
we need to enjoy more…
                                                           ­                                               feel more...
we need to believe more…
                                                           ­                                          know more…
we need to live more…

                                                we need to love

When I was young, I was told there would come a day when
      I would understand what it meant to care for someone
            more dearly than myself.

I thought I knew everything because I had seen a few movies
      and I had my family, but I was a child.

I knew little other than the golden rule, and to always wash
      behind my ears, and to not talk to strangers.

It wasn’t ‘til I saw her that I began to understand what they had
      told me.

Gradual glances and grins, conversations about nothing, searching
      instead of coming across each other, seeing through eyes
            not to them.

Caressing cheeks with fingertips, touching hands and being happy
      with existence, taking solace in each other’s arms.

Joining lips and thoughts and smiles, knowing that the world is
      imperfect, and knowing that we are perfect.

You’re just a child, but there will come a day when you understand
      what it means to love.

between dreams and deficiencies

for a moment candied whispers
mask the taste of stale drags

I know these moments can't stretch
long enough to make the feeling real

but for now I drink the ichor of your lie and
I am lovely

Excuses are drugs
you have given your sense
Excuses are masters
you have given your means
Excuses are graves
you have given your future