I’m smoking the butts of your cigarettes;
The ones you left in the ash tray during our last conversation.

I’m smoking the butts of your cigarettes;
Just to be where your lips have been.

I’m only doing this all because I think that I need it;
It’s as close as I can get to you.

And once you get
homeless. It's fine
to remain same.

for seeking shelter
in you is easy and
less insecure.

building new home
is tough. with the fear
of being homeless.

your belongings stays
at the old one. for which
you look behind. always.

mediocre and
faded
the average poem
no longer strikes chords
in the heart's harp
use extravagant vocabulary
weave your words tight
until they seem uncomfortable
the original meaning lost
between the claustrophobic corners
covered in lace and pretentious boasting
try but don't try so hard
that no one but the classic readers
would be able to understand
the words you've worked so hard to convey
do not force a poem out
or it will stick your fingers and
it will create a mess
similar to a teenage boy
it will be long and uncomfortable with itself
unknowing of how to adjust
into this thing that is supposed to be
mature now despite wanting to be simple
do not rush poetry
find quiet inspiration
in silent observations
of yourself, of nature
rushing poetry makes it fast
too many unfilled thoughts
racing around in one space
not meeting each other
despite being so close together
tell a story with imagery
with delicate words of morality
tell a story with flashbacks
with soft lips and with stained shirts
tell a story with love
make your poems with care

Naked
Without my armor
She strips me of my shield
Taking with it the world
The worry
The burdens
Healing me
Embracing me
Clothing me in her love
I now wear the richest coat
The strongest fabric
Her

I painted you.
With trembling, amateur precision,
I suffered each line on your face.

Each fleck of sun,
Your candid smile,
Your immediate beauty in the foreground
Of an exceptional ocean.

Stumbling blindly through the days,
Fumbling for the switch
In a punch-drunk, love-sick afternoon.

Apart from you,
Stripped, exposed,
Laid prone on the gurney
With my skull in a vice
And a fist to my stomach.

I can barely stand because of you.

I painted you this afternoon
So I could toil in your gaze.
Pray I am an interesting splatter,
A noticeable blight;
A happy accident on your page.

There's a secret
religion
only those
who seek solace
in moon-ly conversations
believe in

A secret cult
only for those
who conduct
conversations
in silence

An underground
society that
thrives on
a separate entity
consisting of
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