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I know what I want*.
And no, I don't want you.
I've been choking from the moment
I was forced to let you go
I should have spoke it out of poems
so that you would ever know
that I am bowing out & broken
want to unlearn every bone
until my heart re-bleeds the reasons
I keep sleeping here alone

so won't you
untie all my finger-tips
& hand me back my lungs
I was the fool that glued my heart to you
please can't you see what you have done ?
She watched him sleeping, wondering
When did she stop loving him
Was it gradual
Did she ever love him
Could she love another
Her mind was made up
She would leave tomorrow
He watched her sleeping, wondering
Placing the pillow over her face
Did he ever love her.
POETRY*

It's never easy
to write poetry
as assumed by many
often a poem is a mystery

where's the poetic- river source?
how many miles must its waters cross?
the poet finds himself only
at the river-end where springs his best poetry.
* inspired by a conversation with Sarah Spang, a fellow-writer
4 am is for lovers who went separate ways,
not for the in love asleep in comforting embrace.

it’s for the broken souls wandering aimlessly,
looking for a friend, looking for company.

It's for the painful heart wrenching confession,
or moans of pleasure in the throes of passion.

But my 4am is for the one i hold so dearly,
yet can't have because he doesn't want me.
we can't erase what is already on a canvas
but we can always paint over it
it seems as though someone is passing around info about me getting in trouble with the law over seven years ago. i am not proud of it, but i own my actions. i paid my debt by serving six months in jail, as well as taking a good beating for it. the past paints the future, and experiences change our lives. i am a different person now, and i can't dwell on the past. if others want to, that's fine.
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