Skin milky soft against golden brown light nudging you awake.
Hair jet black against a porcelain complexion.
Angular face throwing shadows onto my body as the sun licks it up.
Grumpily turn your back.
I see now, You are a morning flower m'love.
You may not know it,
and you may not like it,
You're quick to bloom,
and soon to wilt,
I'm sorry I plucked you,
I'm sorry I killed you,
I didn't know you were but only a morning flower m'love.

A
Dictionary
is a
poets
best
friend
with the
exception
of her
pencil
or
pen

you                                                               eve
shouldn't                                                shouldn't
have                                                           have
touched                                                     eaten
her                                                               the
so                                                     forbidden
softly                                                         fruit

sometimes
i walk down my driveway
and lie in the spot where
your car use to be parked
and think about its
p r e s s u r e
on my chest

I wish I could soak my brain in narcotics.
Then maybe I could sleep at night.
Maybe if I pour Nyquil into my ears.
If I drill a hole in my skull and funnel down some Vicodin.
Some Ambien, Eszopiclone, Ramelteon, Triazolam, Zaleplon, Zolpidem salad.
And a bowl or two on the side.
But then I may never wake up.
And the sky looks too perfect in the morning to sleep forever.

Theres a pit in my stomach.
A Peach.
My skin is so soft.
Like a Peach.
I bruise.
Must be a Peach.
Sometimes I'm hard and bitter.
Wait to see, I'm as sweet as can be.
I/must/be/a/peach.