the hallways are shallow
faces pass by-
another person i don't know

i habitually scan each person's expressions
to see if they're as blank as yours
nobody is quite like you

with your long hair
dark like tree bark
and your definite smokers cough
that you never held back from me

as you ran your fingers through my hair
constantly having a pack of marlborlo silvers
peeking out of your back pocket

it's not quite the same without you,
i hate to admit

but if you returned,
you'd just add another cigarette hole in my heart

In love they wore themselves in a green embrace.
A silken rain fell through the spring upon them.
In the park she fed the swans and he
whittled nervously with his strange hands.
And white was mixed with all their colours
as if they drew it from the flowering trees.

At night his two finger whistle brought her down
the waterfall stairs to his shy smile
which like an eddy, turned her round and round
lazily and slowly so her will
was nowhere—as in dreams things are and aren't.

Walking along avenues in the dark
street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads
with a voilence they never understood
and all their movements when they were together
had no conclusion.

Only leaning into the question had they motion;
after they parted were savage and swift as gulls.
asking and asking the hostile emptiness
they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone
and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed
to see them form and fade before their eyes.

I am just a mere poet
A ****** poet indeed
I only write a bittersweet topic
And I just turn out to be nostalgic

I am a ****** poet
It is evident in my works
I can't even write a poem
That can be compared to the claret

I'm just a simple man
Who expresses his thoughts
Though my writings are ******
And aren't bound to push through

I am one ****** poet
I am one such disappointment
For my poems are not to be met
And are destined to be deprived of acknowledgement

I am a paradox
A self-loathing narcissist
I crave attention but at the same time I don't want to exist
I 'm cocky at the same time that I'm modest
I hate hypocrites more than anything
But I am one;

I wish I could just run
Not run but just isolate myself from the world
I try as hard as I can to but as much as I seem misanthropic
I hate being lonely more than anything
So I sit in my room, my dark room
The bright monitor contrasting my face from the darkness
Trying to escape reality through film or any way I can
I just wish I could stop thinking
But I can't.

if "you are what you eat"
was true
i would help myself
to a bouquet of sunflowers
everyday,
because
i want to learn how to shine
like the street light
outside my bedroom window
i'd line my stomach
with old leonard cohen records
so i could sing all my "i love you"'s
i would stuff my face
with the pages of your favourite book
so i could regurgitate the words
you love so much
whisper them in your ear
while you sleep
i'd take a bite
out of an oak tree
cut me in half
& count my rings
there are so many things
i wish i were
i am not graceful
i'd like to make a toast
to every day that i haven't fallen down
or slipped
or tripped
on my words
see, i am full of mistakes
i never learned
how to ride a bike
god, my parents really tried
but the ground was so unforgiving
& i was too afraid of falling
now,
i would eat those training wheels
so i could keep my balance
walk in a straight line
i'd swallow my watch
so i'm always on time
don't be surprised
if you see me
tucking into those sunflowers
please,
come & bask
in my rays.

Tears under lamplight, so often called silver.
as if you think they're precious, or beautiful.
As if my pain makes me special, or radiant.
As if this is something rare, like it doesn't happen so often.
You think my tears make me unique, like no one else has ever been
Radiant in quicksilver, and no one else's shoulders have trembled
Under the burden of these sharp reflections of light
that adorn my face.
like the fluid sparkle of my eyes in this moment
is unprecedented and will not be repeated
thousands of millions of times over
so many people, so many faces.
So much glistening pain.

But this is not the first time
And it is far from the last
for me, or any of the others.
My tears are not silver, they are not precious.
They are not beautiful.
My blood has turned to water
and life has whipped me in the face
until I have overflowed and I bleed,
staining everything with the liquid pain
pouring out of the tracks cut through my trembling flesh.
You are so close to the truth
     (If I heated silver, if I stuck it to my cheeks
      if I watched the flesh burn and embraced the pain
      everyone who cared to look would see and the marks
      would not fade for a long time
      or ever.)
But so far from it
     (If I heated silver, if I melded it to my face
      if I adorned myself in refractions of glory
      I might be able to walk with pride.
      Everyone could see me, resplendent
      and I would embody strength
      and not hatred of my own weakness.)

“They say love is blind,
And I think that’s true,
Because sometimes
Love makes you blind
To your beloved’s flaws.

But I think love
Has 20/20 vision,
Because it means
You see someone’s flaws
As something beautiful-
Because mama loves the fact
That daddy has too-big feet,
And daddy loves that
He has to bend down 12 inches
To give mama a kiss.

I think love is tone-deaf,
Because even though daddy can’t sing,
Mama loves to hear him try.

I think love hears every tone
And every sound in between,
Because daddy can tell mama’s mood
Just by how she sighs.

I think love is passionate and crazy
And never makes sense,
Because my parents moved
Five hundred and forty-two miles away
Two weeks after they said “I do.”

I think love is simple and stubborn
And level-headed,
Because Daddy proposed in a car-
Didn’t even pull off to the side of the road
Or get down on one knee-
He just pulled out the ring.

I think love is paradoxical,
Highly illogical,
As painful as a bullet-wound,
As breath-taking as a lady in red,
And as obvious as a wedding ring.

I think love is
Cleaning the kitchen
To make new messes,
And sewing new buttons
On old blue jeans.

Love is
“I do”
& “I did”
“I’m sorry”
“Please forgive me”
& “keeping no record of wrongs.”

Love is ***** dishes in the sink,
And their song coming on,
His hands slide around her waist,
And she turns around and
They dance.

Love doesn’t always make sense,
But it doesn’t always have to,
Because love is a walking contradiction,
And mama and daddy contradict best.”