Who should you write poetry for?

Write for someone
Who cares enough to read it
And have the words etched upon
Their hearts,
Never fading.

Write for someone
Who knows you enough,
To know
That you are a mixture of a thousand emotions
You never show
And your poetry is a gateway
To your heart.

Write for someone,
Who would willingly walk down
An abyss with you,
Not someone, who walks into it,
Unknowingly
Overwhelmed by your words' intensity

Write for someone,
Who is many different people,
For many different people,
And still is all of them for you,
A side he only shows to you.

Write for someone,
Whose love is not a secret,
Confessed in a hushed tone,
Write for someone who loves you,
And is unapologetic about it.


Write for someone,
Who sees a part of them
Every time your eyes meet,
Write for the part
Of yourself
You see in them.

Write for someone
To whom you actually mean something
And your words will never go unnoticed,
Dissolving in wind
The moment your lips set them free.

Remembrance for a great man is this.
The newsies are pitching pennies.
And on the copper disk is the man's face.
Dead lover of boys, what do you ask for now?

There were flowers
On the day she left him
Fanfare echoed
Against every corner of the room
There was silence
In a sea of sound
And for once
She felt unbound

She was free
And so was he
Two strangers
Side by side
There was silence
In a sea of sound

Minuscule we are
Yet grand we choose to be
To love with our hearts
Locked in cages
To keep it on a leash

The day we lose our lucency
For singularity
As free as Viper's ocean
Of mist and disbelief
A lighthouse breaks the silence
As loud as light can be

There were flowers
In the courtyard
There were flowers
In the breeze
There were flowers
Down the aisle the day
They swore to never leave
There were flowers
On the day one left
And none could be the same
Growing violently towards the sun
Always on the run

There were flowers on her deathbed
Petals washed back to the shore
Running back in bloom and gore
Like they'd never done before

There were flowers in his hand
On the day their love turned ten
Yet she never got to see them
And his words laid in the hang

it’s 12 degrees outside
excluding the breeze, I hide
behind the rising smoke
of the cigarette just lit,
my fingers are falling off,
nails ripping to the marrow
a ****** stutter impairing speech,
a seizured grab to the fleeced pocket
leaves only the other hand to freeze,
such a sacrifice to something
old-me said I didn’t need,
I kick around snow
as my leather boots wear a
coat of white as I shiver
and inspire, throwing a black
coat over my lungs
“hey do you have a lighter?”
“yeah”
the ash sails down
and kisses the filter and a flick
collides the ember to exhale it’s final breath
to the frozen floor,                                                    
I step inside and
suddenly, I’m cold again.
                                                                               MJB

this is the moon's
quiet rose, the unfolding
of the clouds, tranquility
resting her head,
the beautiful sea.