Sometimes I can fancy my mind,
as a glistening cage. Filled with beautifully
painted birds, fluttering about from bar
to bar. Feeding on the debris blown through
the thin golden bars. I find these birds to
be incredibly different, each of their
songs uniquely tuned.

The navy bird with blackened eyes, can bring
the cage itself to tears. While the pure white dove
fills the air with hope, and the rose-winged mocking
jay swells the heart.

In the corner rests the speckled bird,
a creature of random, jumbled notes. His eyes
stare blindly at the other birds. His voice screeching
over theirs without warning. Above and to the side
of him, sits a elderly gray-feathered gent. His
songs hint at paths already taken, happier
times now gone and past.

Finally, there is a creature, red as blood-bathed
rubies. Its eyes are ever watching, its wing always
pinned for flight. From her beak drips poison, a deadly
song slowly spun. Her temper suffocates the surrounding
air. Choking out the other birds if they should wander near.

All these birds sing their songs, fluff their wings and play their parts.
When needed most of all, they join in a chorus. Their voices
blending in disorganized harmony. I try to pick about the noise.
Piece together the notes and figure out the message. Yet, the only
lyrics that are ever clear, come tainted with the spit of my red
pet. Why must my thoughts be jumbled so?

When will my birds learn to live as one?

I'm sorry if I don't give a **** about
couplets
or rhyming words
or patterned stanzas
or structured lines
or even making that much sense.

Poetry to me is about
drinking too much
smoking too much
speaking too much
and spitting words onto paper.

I'm sorry if I
swear too much for your taste
or my poems are scattered remnants of dreams
or I mix tenses and completely make up words sometimes
or maybe I hide behind vices.

Poetry to me is
finding out who I am
and what honesty is
and trying to appease the beast
and telling the truth even when I lie.

It’s all right, zombie husband.
I didn’t like the dog.
Or the twins.
Seriously, all they did was cry.
It’s like, “shut up, already”,
You know?

That shooting star the other night
You said it was a sign
I think it was our satellite
'Cos I can't get online

That shooting star the other night
You said make a wish
I wish I had, I would have said
Please don't hurt our dish

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”