the moon is beaming in the dark
with tiny stars as little sparks
it shines with pride, in graceful hues
when night time falls and starts anew

but the moon is kind,
it does not boast
it shines so brightly
to guide, at most

and the moon loves greatly,
it loves the stars
because it lets them shine too
so they are seen from afar

Words flowing from the pen
Ink creates a story
Sometimes Vivid vision
Deep from within

The moment your eyes past
The words of a fellow poet
You were stung
Never to recover

Love at first sight is not real
Yet here it happened
Given to search each day
Deciding to read what is laid

Your eyes must see
That you cannot express
No reason to hurt
Passions too strong to resist

Pulling away from desires
Brushing them from your mind
Turbulence cannot be avoided
Commitment to another

Reality expressed so easily
Feelings never available before
Does this answer the question
Where do they fit in your heart

I once too was a victim,
A victim of desire..
Luring me in slowly, drowning, in its unquenchable fire..
Thirsty
I needed escape
I realized soon, it was a life, I needed replaced
It was freedom that I needed to taste
To never be fazed
To be in control
To bring back everything that desire had constantly stole
The wrong path that I took, now I wander the netherworld in search of my home
In time I will know
The darkness will be caved by the light at the end of the road
Love will shine, and fear will not prevail anymore
As of now we keep traveling fro
You are never alone, and where ever you roam
Soon we'll all be together, soon we'll cross paths,
Happily we'll live and we'll dine
To never remember the past...

Desire. It's the storm cloud that creeps
Across the skull and blocks the light of common sense.
It's the janitor with a hidden agenda
That doesn't allow any light bulb to come on.
A Svengali swinging a pendulum left to right,
Until the mind is at its complete beck and call.

Desire. It reaps millions of butterflies;
Grown in the stomach. Wanting to be free.
It's the cause of the tension in your body.
The tsunami in your eyes. The quaking of the hands.
Most importantly, it's the internal burning sensation
That spreads to become a hole in the heart.

Desire. It's the delicate crumbling of anxiety
That melts with the comforting warmth of relief.
The fire of temptation; burning so sweet
As sweat collects upon victims unknown.
The aching in the muscles, the knocking in the chest
Of a heart whose cavity has been patched up.

Desire. It's the patch that frays over time
And the hole is re-opened. Tears re-flood.
The trembling vocal chords and the cracking voice
That fall like foundations under searing heat.
The eventual destruction and its finality
That hit you with a dull metallic taste in the mouth.

Finally knowing that no matter how bad you want it,
You will never own it unless under its own terms.
Advice? Read the fine print.

She runs from the garden with a tomato worm in her palm
leaving behind a doll, chocolate milk, and banana.

Behind her and thousands of feet above, a green-black
anvil cloud muscles in  from the southwest, close to home;

far from her mind.

There's a better version of me,
    up, ahead. And
        he loves you in ways,
        I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.

And lonely,
    you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
            roads don't just sparkle, every
            time that you need it.

            In the poem I write next,
    we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
                In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
                before I can remind you
                about asking Simon.

    In the distance, outside the door to your
    basement, a crowd la-las the
    Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
                            "Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."

"Where would you rather be,
                                            than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
            "Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
                        I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.

There's a father, presiding
over a service,
                for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
                    front of the room.
                        Our parents are crying, regardless.

                        I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
            sipping on the universe. This one
                                                    or another.
        If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.

        But in our past,
        the same one we share now,
        a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
                                    Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.