i may look like i'm something on the outside,  but deep down inside i'm absolutely nothing

i'm unfortunately not worth it and i never will be.

In autumn,
all the leaves fall
creating a pastel monsoon
vibrant reds and illustrious oranges
that would make
the busiest of people
take a moment of their time
to glance up
and admire
the last pure thing
to coexist with the modern human race.
In winter,
the trees become bare,
vulnerable,
as am I.
What I used to enjoy
so much
now pains me to even look at on a calendar.
I was bare
I was vulnerable
and you striked.
Pulling back the string,
you brought the arrowhead to your lips
giving it a small kiss
for me,
and let go.
It struck me right in the heart,
but you were hunting
for all the wrong reasons
you were hunting
for the ****.
The pain quickly spread through every nerve ending ever to exist
as my head pounded
kind of like the alarm
you give an ungrateful smack to
every morning.
There was no snooze button,
no matter how hard I hit,
cut,
and clawed at
the plastic surrounding
my alarm clock
the pain did not stop.
And here we are,
a year later.
Still buzzing,
still attempting,
still hurting.
In Spring,
the leaves grow back.
They grow back new skin
and new bodies,
any lacerations
nowhere to be found.
Yet, their colors
are more dull
because in nature
the more innocent you are
the less you shine.

If you ever glanced at me you’d see
My pained eyes that silently scream
The utter helplessness of being in love.
You may give yourself into the arms,
Of another man and he may in turn,
Walk out on someone like you,
Reminiscent of the autumn clouds
That are made of our dreams,
Delicate as the wings of butterflies
That are lettered with our wishes
Their wistful glory is lost palpably
In some mysterious dimension,
For all things are ephemeral.
And so in the end, it doesn’t matter
If you belong to me or to him
But you must belong to poetry,
Your inimitable essence worded,
Which forever defies the cold rains
Poured from the urn of timeless Time.

Live,
While unknowingly
Leaving it.

•••

"on some days, I love you more than others,"
an early morning uh oh
IROLO
(instantly regretted out loud observation),
of the potentially ruinous kind,
spoken with malice towards none,
and obviously,
no forethought,
firmly but modestly muttered
over the modestly rumpled
courtroom battlefield
of sheets, newsprint, mugs
and Bocelli on low

smockingly,
(a slow spreading smile of mock),
she turns her gaze upon
the presumed guilty, querulous,
soon-to-be-ruined ruminator (me),
and asks with
disdainful derisive decisiveness

is your first cuppa too hot darling?
has your uncommon sense of non-sense been burnt?

t'is true I reply,
I feel the burn!

for am I not sworn
to tell the whole heated truth
and nothing but?

my love for you is simply
a mathematical additive,
progression series

every new day I love you
is forever
a mighty mite more
than the prior,
a smudged smidge of a penciled line,
taller than the
higher higher notated
upon ancient yesterday's doorpost

ergo,
ip so factoid,
and therefore,
by definition

on some days I love you more than others
    •••


p.s. never have conversations like this in the presence of within-reach newspapers,
for they be
easy rolled and revised
into fearsome weaponry,
suitably for handy smacking"