I spent my nights reading books in our greatest libraries
Searching for what it is I am still clinging on to,
Then after the final vowel I realised
The one thing I miss about you, is you.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

Let us be fearless.
Like a child
who makes its first steps
again and again
knowing he'll fall down.

She wants to fall in love,
but not with someone, no.
She wraps her arms around her body,
buries her face in her sleeves.
She smells like citrus;
she used too much soap.

She wants to love her throat
and her thighs
and her knees
and her mouth.

She gasps and sighs and screams sometimes
and spit oozes from between her lips.
She tried to ***** into the bushes
but as soon as she felt her stomach heave,
she gave up.

She wants to love her toes
and her collarbones
and her elbows
and her wrists.

A history book made her cry today,
and so did chocolate chip cookies.
She sweat and sweat
and scraped her hands
and her shower water was too cold.

She wants to love her calves
and her nose
and her spine
and her hips.

She hates the feeling of gagging
and she's afraid of pain
but not blood.
Her hair is all damp
and she chews on her cheeks.

She wants to love her voice
and her ribs
and her teeth
and her palms.

She likes a boy she shouldn't
and she wants to write poems on his skin,
but she has a math test on Wednesday
and that will hurt worse.

She wants to love her cheekbones
and her shoulders
and her jaw
and her stomach.

She really wants to love herself,
she really, really does.
I just don't think that she tries
very hard.

The girl who thinks Tuesday is "almost Friday"
bakes in her room like a milk-crate left for Phoenix dead.

Nobody's knocking
but nobody's thinking.
How do we know that the fly loves its life on the web
if we've only consulted the spider?

How do we document
a Grecian revival of a Spanish writer.

Her body spoke of him.
His mind spoke of her.

Their hearts didn't speak to each other.

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes
Into words
They would be like
The skin that sits on custard
And crinkles
Or they would be
The shattering of sunlight
Over leaf-spears
That toy it apart into
Forkfuls of sweet butter
Or they would be
The winkles around the heart
Of a daffodil
One day growing,
The next dying
But always yellow

I don't much like the colour yellow
But there's a richness to it
And a glassiness
And an optimistic up-swing
That I see in the corners of your blue eyes

If only
I could put the corners of your eyes into words
Because we've all sold out
Of happy poems.

i stumble on my words when i talk about you
but my heart no longer flutters

because as we were running
you promised you would catch me
but when i stumbled you weren't there
and i fell

so now i stumble alone
with no one to catch me

but words are easier to handle
than a broken heart

though she  walks  a beautiful  road
    that  is  not  all  there  is.

bathed in brilliance
    flowing through her  being  as  if  it
      were  in her veins.

courage surges from  every orifice:
       a  warrior,  underestimated,   unappreciated

   head  among the clouds
      sun kissed eyes   blind
to  the  adverse

        lips graced  with  a  wisdom  beyond  the  years
  worn
       refined
radiant patience brushed  over  her skin

so though she walks  with  flowers  in  her  hair
     beauty   is  not  all  there  is.