Never allow negative people, make you into something that you are not.
For you are worthwhile, the Creator of the universe says so as well.
For he created you, he never creates junk only masterpieces does he makes.
He loves you all more then you shall ever know, here on the earth.
Once you make it into the Holy Kingdom heaven above where he dwells.
Then you shall finally get a glimpse, of how much that he does.
For you are a child of the one whom fashion the universe that we live in.
He knew every hair that is on your head, your every thought as well.
So please do not give up on him, he has never given up on you.

There was this pupae
living in my mouth.
It grew into a chrysalis.
Turned to mush then
reconstructed in a shell.
When it comes out
will it be a butterfly?
Or will it be more like
The Silence of the Lambs.

'You looking at me?'

I knew she was.
There was no secret in those dull cow eyes
So I went in armed
and shot her through the heart.

Like Travis Buckle
I came out a hero?

505

I would not paint—a picture—
I’d rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell—delicious—on—
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare—celestial—stir—
Evokes so sweet a Torment—
Such sumptuous—Despair—

I would not talk, like Cornets—
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings—
And out, and easy on—
Through Villages of Ether—
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal—
The pier to my Pontoon—

Nor would I be a Poet—
It’s finer—own the Ear—
Enamored—impotent—content—
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!

as is the sea marvelous
from god’s
hands which sent her forth
to sleep upon the world

and the earth withers
the moon crumbles
one by one
stars flutter into dust

but the sea
does not change
and she goes forth out of hands and
she returns into hands

and is with sleep….

love,
    the breaking

of your
        soul
        upon
my lips

I

If I were a poet
I would compose beautiful line
breaks and elegant stanzas.

Similes would be ******* scattered
with alliteration like
stars against a sunset sky.

My tone would be of reason
rather than innocence.
I would refuse to analyze
the meaning of death in literature.

              II

Fortune cookies would be my mantra
and life would be a wiggle
instead of a struggle.

I would pray five times a day
to my journal
most benevolent, ever-merciful.

My poems would not be of peace
of war
or (you)nity
or them here Amur'cans.

              III

My form would be indifferent
and probably never earn me awards
or acceptance to grad school.

Fondness of (parentheses)
may get me compared to e.e. cummings
or completely dismissed
if I were a poet.

In here a groan rises as a mist,
a guttural prayer
in coughed blood.
The candlelight whispers
an unutterable secret
on every rafter.

Heaving over
his leaden spine
he wonders when does death become
something breathtaking.

And not a voyage back somewhere he knows,
as he thinks
to a picture
of England

that bore him a son and wife
And every Friday night at the Red Lion
And darts and a pint.
And his rifle.

He saw god once in his child
and once in a French field hospital
as a man with metal red spit
lain on his back.