The day you write a poem
is like no other!
It's like running through a dark corridor
and then you open a door
to this room full of light
that shines through you!
And you find yourself
conjuring words of hope and joy
fascinated in front of the endless
*beauty of life

Her hair is buckwheat, straight,
hanging with the ease of
an assisted suicide.
And the smear, red and from
ear to ear, shows what she cannot:
that beauty is fluid and that we've forgot.

Sun-freckled and speckled
with cheap, off-brand gloss --
she is the monologue of
an anxious man across
the girl in the catalog, who
wore the Fall before the fall.

In the early sun, a dew soaked swing set basks in rust as we play
I find your eyes at the window watching.
Smiling.
I am safe. I know this.
Concrete paints my knees red.
And you totter over with peroxide and a hug.
I am safe. I know this.
You'd find a path to the sun if only it stretched my popsicle lips into a smile.
I stalk home past midnight; a stomach gurgling with liquors I can't pronounce.
I find you on the couch flipping channels as your eyelids turn weak.
You approach me with a slap I was expecting.
Then a hug
Then a slap
Then a hug.
I am safe. I know this.
I'm panting with worry. My mind racing. Each thought like a poorly aimed bullet.
But you somehow find a way to extinguish them in your fists.
Until my smeary wet mascara stained cheeks swell into a laugh.
I am safe. I know this.

It is winter and you sense my eyes so flameless, fragile.
I am restrained by the presumptions of my fate.
My arms have been ripped from my sides so naturally you tear off your own limbs for my use.
Your appendage helps me to climb.
I'm out of the ditch. Because I am loved.
I am safe. I know this.  
It is industrial where the stringent work. I cower at the mass of its stolidity. But even then I find you, the earths drippy clay molding to my quirky nervous and dissatisfied self.
Everywhere else.
I am safe. I know this.
And my dear mother.
You are loved. I hope you know this.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

When we first met
She was unaware

How far she'd fall
How much she'd care

How deep the love would
Weave between

Our hearts no boundaries
Can be seen

A love so strong
So sweet, so kind

A love she thought
Would never find

Her broken life
Would never mend

The love we share
Will never end

Editing my thoughts;
A spoonful of porridge in one hand,
a pen in the other

My two main forms of sustenance;
One for the body,
The other the mind

A bite turns into a meal,
A written word into an expression of 'soul'.
The primordial biological urge is constant

Without the food I would not have the strength to pick up the pen;
Without the pen I would have no desire to eat.
Their unison might be the only thing keeping me in motion

Long may it go on.

I love you
And you love me
Sounds like the perfect mix
But you do not
Love my skin tone
Or crippling anxiety
Or tears down my face
You love
My laughter
And smile
And attention
While I love every piece of you
You find problems I keep trying to resolve
And change
Just for you
Because
I love you
And you love me
Just not all of me