Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
can relate
and poetry to which
people can't relate.
And that makes all the difference
in the world.

there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless

He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts

and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
reading

"Check out the new guy," they
said. "An intellectual. Heh, hey buddy,
what you reading that for? Not like
you gonna get a degree that'll take
your *** outta here anytime soon. Haaahahah!"

He was reading his own poems
from a time when
he was young and his dreams were
still alive

Today nothing was alive
but misery itself

I love when you write
That perfect sensibility
That comes about
Every nuance covered
Your changing of season
Your moon rising so bright
So full, so womanly
For everyone you want to see it
Lucky me, I say, for it makes me
Journey back to beautiful
Downward
Past time
Past demons still chained where I left them
Cobwebs
Rusty steps
To where your fire still burns
7 floors down
Everlasting flames
That never needs tending to
Where you
Are you
And you never need explaining
Why you have the need to be who you are

I love when you write

I warm myself by your love filled fire
From time to time
Never having to ask permission
Watching and hearing your embers crackle and then go dancing high up and into the night…how beautiful a sight

How beautiful a sight

There’s only so much
Only so much
Before you suffer
The touch
Of so much
Of so beautiful
Then it becomes
A curse

The cold hard truth of it is
You’ll be too much for someone
Too little for someone else
And the in between
You said goodbye to
Decades before
Without even knowing
The perfect one...

Just like we’ve passed
One perfect flower once in our lives
One perfect sunset
One perfect spring storm
One perfect meal
One perfect day
Where she held your hand
And told you she wanted this forever...

Nowadays your clock in your car
Is 9 minutes fast
And it’s the only thing you care about
The only thing you want to fix
But don’t know how...

In the process of breaking
Someone’s heart
Leave them with a soul...

Know when to go
When to stay
When it’s over

When love has walked into the darkness

Alone...

And somewhere out there...
A dead man still gets 14 emails
A day
Because the world doesn’t stop
Spinning
Churning
Twisting
Breaking off
But never to come back
To life...