Hi, my name is 'TheWord'

and

I am unreliable and messy!
A symbol!
A figment of projected meaning!
A run-around!
A silhouette!

And how I have fallen in love with myself.

I sit, procrastinate and wonder
How my country became sundered.

I like to pretend
I no longer have a heart
but sometimes
I pull it out of the bottom drawer
and speak to it
just so it knows
that I know
its still there
and apologize
for all I have poured over it
to bury its existence
and all the times
I gave it to the undeserving
I make promises
that it will be freed again
someday
then safely tuck it away
and sneak back out of her house.

The beauty of the heart

is the lasting beauty:

its lips give to drink

of the water of life.

Truly it is the water,

that which pours,

and the one who drinks.

All three become one when

your talisman is shattered.

That oneness you can't know

by reasoning.

I really do judge
what I write as I write it.
Childish, boastful, self-
absorbed, morbid, pathetic,
simple-minded. You
know, the works. We all have to
be critical in
life or nothing is sacred.
N o t h i n g
m a t t e r s .
Everything will exist and
it won't mean a ****
thing.

Life provides the contours.
Poets provide the shading and colors.

r ~ 23Mar14

Midnight.
Starlight starbright?
Past-tense, dead-like.

Simultaneously straddling then-and-now
Stars/black-hole-ghosts
Shine and destroy across the light-eons.