Crack a hole in my skull
to let some light in
I’m walking around confused
checking out the numbers
on the side of houses
I’m walking around whistling the theme tune
of a movie I never saw
in light tinted green through newly sprung leaves
I bask in the holy midday sun
everything so fresh and new
it makes one forget about mistakes
and tomorrows
and consequence
pour me a strong, cold drink
I want to live life
on an endless back porch summer night
where the insects and the trees make their music
as we slowly let go
of the parts of ourselves
which hold no real weight
cut me to see if I bleed
I bet the blood would never come
too thick from the sweat induced
dehydration
I’m drinking iced coffee
on an infinite stretch of broad street
I’m climbing the trees of my childhood
to pick the fruits of my memories
they taste like nostalgia
and they taste like you
how I imagine you taste
if we were cast together
outside of time
these are the musings
of a mind riddled with growing up

The fisherman tells the sea
that he promises to weather its storms.
The sea tells the fisherman
that she promises to carry him
to adventurous lands
upon her leeward waves.

As for me,
I promise we will be okay
as the winds blow the shingles
off our tiny, little house.
I promise we will be okay
as we follow the maps
and navigate the roads
while the radio sings static,
our hands clasped together
at your knee.

I promise that the rain
will radiate diamonds,
that reflect the gleam of your eyes,
onto the shores,
into the sea,
onto me,
and especially onto you.

We will find hope inside the clouds.

I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if

in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.

I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...

..or sorry, for that matter.

my naked lady framed
in twilight is an accident

whose niceness betters easily the intent
of genius—
                        painting wholly feels ashamed
before this music,and poetry cannot
go near because perfectly fearful.

meanwhile these speak her wonderful
But i(having in my arms caught

the picture)hurry it slowly

to my mouth,taste the accurate demure
ferocious
              rhythm of
                            precise
laziness.  Eat the price

of an imaginable gesture

exact warm unholy

I've been in a writing slump lately. I don't know why. I've been focusing on being a real human being again - getting back into school, being more sober, working more, making more money, working out, being more social. But whenever I find the time to write I just feel tired and want to sit on my *** watching tv. I don't know, this is just a rant I guess. I'm going to try to work on it. Keep scribbling guys- Harry J. Baxter

Let me be your drug
stimulants to raise you up higher than any peak
setting your veins on fire and tickling the bottom of your feet
Let me hone your mind to a fine focused edge
lethal, right?
Let me take your inhibitions and crush them
teach you how to dance
and egg you on to violence
standing up for yourself is just that
depressants? Yeah I've got that covered
make you feel so low the sun light falls short
I've got a book full of lullabies to put you to bed
and I can make those cuts and bruises
feel like loose, easy sunlight
let me alter your perception
DMT, Shrooms, and Lucy
I'll show you a God you forgot to believe in
hallucinations so real they send your nightmares reeling
back into the comfortable dark of closets and bottoms of beds
Love Drug?
I'm an easy E to pop
Molly Molly Molly
Moon rocks
prompts for the closet romantics
and **** machines
light this stick of TNT spliff
and ******* out into the dead air between all things

My words aren't  graceful or eloquent
I've never been a good writer
And everything I want to say sounds inadequate
I can never find the right words to say
I could write volumes about you
But everything just comes out as a cliche
So I'll just listen to a love song
Because everyone's better at saying what I think
It's not unusual that you leave me tongue tied with no response
And everytime I try to string letters in a coherent  thought
I just get your name
Only your name