Bringing people into your life is a big responsibility
like owning a pet
you have to feed their minds
you have to exercise their limits
you have to show them affection
you have to make time for them
you have to care for them
because sometimes they can't care for themselves

the reason you love science
is really just poetry
because you love the moment
someone stands up suddenly,
their fingers buzzing, their heart
a Morse code message of discovery
more than the discovery itself.
When you left me with a fish bowl
and an otherwise very empty apartment
I would try to recreate the way you
hung up my jacket when we came inside
with the cuffs rolled up and the collar tucked in
(I used to think I could see your energy
radiating from the blue material as you touched it)
but even when I thought I might have finally
got it right, my heart would ache because
yours wasn’t hanging up next to it.
I try to make new discoveries daily now
because I think that you might still be able to hear
my sharp intake of breath charged by new knowledge
like the energy of my discovery
will cross states and walls and cities
and all the girls you’ve loved since me
and all the way I ****** up in the first place
to find you and remind you
of all the poetry
you’ve missed out on by leaving.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I can hear your ghost in the kitchen
washing the same dish 6 times because
you won’t be able to sleep with ketchup
staining your second favorite dish in the
cupboard.

You told me that if you were a tree you
would want to be a maple, because in
Autumn they leave red finger prints on
sidewalks like ****** clues left behind
at the scene of the crime.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I see your ghost sitting on top of
the cushioned window seat so you can
count the rain droplets running across
the glass outside, one finger tracing a
path or water and one finger twisting
your hair again and again.

I told you that if I was a tree I would be
a willow, my arms reaching down to the
ground you stood on, roots reaching out
for the sidewalks you walked on, trunk
reaching up to the clouds you loved
more than you loved me.

I hate leaving home on days like these:
when I am a willow constantly weeping.

i know you said i shouldn’t wait for you
but like sandra d
when it comes to love,
i have nothing better to do
every other boy is
a dry saltine *******
so let me keep my broken mood ring, babe
i don’t care if it’s stuck on blue

beads
of sweat
roll down her face
she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand

the heat
makes her heart flutter
not with delight
but with apprehension
with fear
more importantly
hostility

the anger
she possesses within herself
stays contained for so long
but is known to erupt
fury and vengeance
spite and wrath

directed at those
who have caused these feelings
endured by those
unfortunate bystanders in her path

the remorse
of hurting those
innocent beings which played no part in the dismay
in the desecration of her soul

the lack of regret
engulfs her
as she remembers that she too was just an inculpable bystander
but was soiled by the ignorance of others

and now
she drips
every pore in her body
her tears hot with turbulence
even her saliva tastes ferocious

alas
she dries the violence
she once again
suppresses the animosity

this however
wont be the last time

provokation is inevitable

I have to wonder why
You call your work “Untitled”.
Is it just that forgettable, or do you simply not care?
Maybe you aren’t as creative
As your works would make us think.
Perhaps you are the type to leave labels off,
Hoping your readers will fill in the gaps.
Whatever it is, I’m sure you have your reasons.
This question will keep me guessing for a while.
If I can’t come up with a definitive answer, I’ll leave my musings
Untitled.