This is because
I will never be good at touching
And because
You will never be good with words
And because
With your beautiful mind
You might never even be able to understand this poem
And what I’m trying to tell you.

I am
Not
Trying to tell you that I love you
Or that I want to spend forever with you

Actually,
I’m perfectly fine
With falling asleep alone
In my oversized bed
And writing poetry at two in the morning
While you play a gig.

And actually,
I’m perfectly fine
With being the one who does all the planning
To make sure that we can work around
Your busy schedule.

What I am trying to tell you is
That no matter how many times I have to look at you funny
When you spout random trivia,
I am always proud
Of the things that you know.

What I’m trying to tell you is,
No matter what other people say,
I am always proud
When you tap drum solos
On my hand.

What I’m trying to tell you is
That I am entirely captivated
By you
And your beautiful mind.

It starts with a Rhythm.
Fast,
Like running.
Like a Traumatizing event.
Like first breath,
After a long time without air.

Or slow,
like the relaxation after a good,
You know.

It's hardly a sound,
More a feeling.
The concept of things falling into place.

I could be better at keeping things together.

Then come the noise, the words,
the shouting and crying.
The singing,
Freewriting.
Thoughts that don't make sense don't follow a pattern don't have breaks or flow.

Words that define
Acknowledge
Make real
the World that we live in and the emotions that are,
Themselves,
Rhythm.

We can’t understand every stranger we meet
And furious waves destroy planes in the East
While back in the West the clock strikes the hour
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

Where choice starving people want a free president
The army fights back and follows the precedent
That gave us a plaque where we once had two towers
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

While grown-ups grow hushed about screaming asylums
Their children grow up dreaming in Bedlam
Looking for fairies behind folded flowers
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

As a conservative man preaches border control
His wife remembers youth when she learned to roll
R’s in a family that balanced cultures on wires
And sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

And though where I’m sitting the clouds are still white
And no one has called me to stand up and fight
To my close friends the situation’s not dire
Still sometimes I think that my hands are on fire.

A room full of AI
A room full of machines
Whirring, clicking- conversing, it seems
Fan motors argue, debates and simple means
Cogs meshed together, the technician, he beams.

Touch
With a certain Religious quality
That binds families together
And friends
And lovers
Holding each other
To fight off fear
In broad daylight.

Red and White and Blue
And distinctly
Beige
Brown and cracked
Like the Earth that you work
And plant medicinal herbs in

Herbs to sooth a dying man
With sweat-drenched brow
As you brush the hair from his face
Herbs to sooth a brand new mother
As her baby cries for comfort
And warmth
Of your touch

Smooth
Like the baby
Rough
Like the man
As you warm the body of my love
Still his shivering
And play music on his ribs

If I said
"***"
Out Loud
Would I get your attention?
You'd definitely get mine.

With my unbrushed hair and mismatched shoes,
I’m not exactly tolerable.

With my sideways thoughts and panic attacks
I’m not what you might call
tolerable.

I’ll laugh              
And smile
And cry at you

Admire,
Insult,
And defend you.

Some days I'll be the death of you.

And I'll always ask for you to take it, all,
         or leave me.

The only choice is to love me, all,
         or leave me.

Everything will be better, I know.

Everything will be better, I know.

Everything will be better, I know.

I create my own reality.

I'm sitting here writing poems because I'd rather

           be Someplace else
        with Someone else
      doing Something

much less productive.

Sometimes I have so much to say that the words come tumbling out of me
Rushing fast as a freight train when you’re standing on the tracks;
Broken as the sound of rain on a rooftop;
Harsh and gentle as a baby’s cry.

Sometimes I have so much to say that the words come tumbling out of me
In loud screeches and cries that forget rules and regulation
Like they’re tired of being quantified and confined.

Sometimes I have so much to say that the words come tumbling out of me
And I don’t stop to think that these are the words that will get me in trouble
Cost me my small place among the unrelenting and reserved;
Lock me up in unforgiving judgment.

Sometimes I have so much to say that it’s easier not to say anything at all.

This is just to say
That I busted your mirror
Heading out this morning.

I'll pick up groceries
On my way back
From the ER.

The only problem with poetry is the
Poetry.

No more rhyming or
Metaphors or
Similes.

No more Poetry.

Just
Thinking and
Breathing and
Living and
Words.

I am guilty of this

Of not speaking up when I need to be heard.

Being afraid
                Of looks
                                Of tones
                                                Of hands
I don’t want to be hurt

                                                                                But the silence already does

Love is a night blooming flower.
It is a white light where there should be none.
          Stark contrast against the night.

Love is a secret place inside
Where everything true is a lie
          And there is chaos.

Love is dark
                                        And Bright

It is a dream to half-remember.
          A void to fall into and surface from

                    Only slightly changed
But not altogether

                            Alone.

We slide off shirts
And I let you pull the cloth
From my hips.

I’ll just as soon hold you close
And bury my face into your shoulder
To breathe the warm water smell of you

As I’ll run off
To let you wonder
Why you’re standing there
In your birthday suit.

Don’t get too confused.
You’ll probably jump to the wrong conclusions.

I just want there to be less stuff in between our souls.

She does it for Attention.
So do I.
So do you.
So stop complaining.

You talk too much.
You want someone to listen to you
Because
No one ever does.

So I'll listen.

I touch too much.
I want someone to reach for me
Because
No one ever does.
So touch me.

This morning,
In front of the mirror,
You picked out that blue shirt.
I picked out this red one.

And we made sure our shoes matched before we walked out the front door.

That's a cute top.
Happy now?

I absolutely
LOVE
That outfit.

Stop being so selfish.
What if it were you we were talking about?

Smile
and a Dizzying
Lightness
when I breathe into your flannel shirt.

You smell like
warm water
and
sunlight.

I am a Lioness.
I am a hunter.
I am raw power.
                                        I could destroy you.
I am a Lioness.
I am a woman.
I am part of a whole.
                                        I don't want to hurt you.

Quiet Kisses on your
Collarbone.
How I loved
The solid shape of you.

How soft gave way to strong
When I laid with you.

Was I enough for you?
Too much for you?

I do want to be close to you
But you couldn't handle being close to me.

What's the difference
between
Words Spoken
and
Words Read?

Is it
The warmth of breath?
The smell of a body
Close?

Or the unwanted desire to be touched.
To just hold hands.
To sit together.

Are we too afraid of looks?
Of clear emotion?
Of the possibility of something hidden.

Are we afraid of everything that can't be spoken aloud?

A body gives off the approximate heat of a candle.
I've always been drawn to fire.

I guess what I need is for you to tell me you love me
And mean it.

I don't need to love you.
You don't need to be perfect
               in my eyes.

I just need to be perfect to you.
               No more mistakes.
               No more "I'm sorry's".

I won't apologize.

If I come and leave I want you to miss me.

I need to be missed.

So much depends
On the missing dollar

That I gave to my son
For candy.

Close to you
with my arms around your shoulders.
A cold night
and a warm sleeping bag
as we fall asleep.

I'm getting too used to Disappointment.

Too used to disappoint.

Lonely days end in
Happy nights end in
Lonely days

But, you know,
I'm alright.

I'd rather have one
Perfect Night.

Even if it won't matter in the morning.


I'll pray for the sun not to rise.

Two feet on the ground
Should be stable
But now and again
The tremors shake it up
Shake me up
Till I can’t keep two feet on the ground.

Sitting under a tree
You and me
Tell me your story
And it gets to me
Breaking me
But I’ll always be strong for you.

And in the dark of the night
With Your head
On my lap
And you’re crying
And I’m trying
Not to let this get to me

To keep the promise I made.

Best friends since I knew that you weren’t crazy
You’ve always tried
To save me
But you couldn’t speak to me
When I asked who the **** was he
Why can’t you let me carry your load?

And you think you don’t have friends
Or family
But you do.
You think that they hate you
But I’ll always be here to save you
Let me be your sister, because I am.

And you think your life is hard
With a family
That loves you
And though you say you care
Prove that you’ll be there
Because I always have to for you.

Two feet on solid
Surface
I’m not alone
And this roof’s not that high
And I feel like I can fly
And hey, you always say that I’m an angel.

I wake up
And see you.
Your Face.
Your lips
Your nose
Your eyes.
But you aren't really there.

I have a knack
Sometimes
Occasionally
For figuring people out.
And you
And me
Are meant to be together.

How can I explain?

Once,
I thought that you were there.
I couldn't feel your body
Or anything fun like that.
But I could feel
You.
You know what I mean.

You're one of those people who can feel things, too.

I haven't put much thought into this poem.
It's been
2 minutes
Since I've started writing.
It's not
Pretty
Artistic
Or
Freakishly Amazing.

This is not Dante's Inferno.
It was not written to be beautiful.
This
is not
a story.

It's an autobiography.

I'm telling you exactly how it is,
What I've seen.

Because I know that you can see it, too.

Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.

Little boy, Says the mother,
Play on your drum.
For your father follows its sound,
Wherever it goes.
Play on your drum.
Lead him to victory,
And lead your father home.

Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.

Son, Says the father,
Play on your drum.
For I once followed its sound,
Wherever it went.
Play on your drum.
Play on to victory,
And always come home.

Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.

Man, Says the Soldier,
Don’t play on your drum.
For I once followed its sound,
Wherever it went.
Well, play on your drum.
Play on to victory,
But you might not come home.

Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Pum.
Barum, Barum, Barum.

Soldier, Says the colonel,
Play on your drum!
And we will follow its sound,
Wherever you go.
Play on your drum!
Lead on to victory,
And Lead us all home.

Barum, Pum!
Barum, Pum!
BaRUM, BaRUM, BaRUM!
Barum, Pum!
Barum, Pum!
BaRUM, BaRUM, BaRUM!

Friend, says the boy,
Don’t play on my drum.
Don’t follow its sound,
Where I have to go.
Don’t Play on this Drum.
Fall back from victory,
But at least you’ll go home.