It took me one sleepless night of writing
poems about you 
poems about us
of quietly suffering under the sheets of my bed
of letting the darkness around me enter
of letting desire consume my head.

It took me one sleepless night of writing
to promise I'll always put myself first
to hold my own hand
to lift myself up 
when I'm at my worst.

Because darling, you may have the most tender fingers
But who got me out of the sheets today?
It was myself
because I'm here alone
and you are so many miles          a w a y.

I've returned
From depths
Unexplored

Walked with the shadows
But yearned still for more

They warned
And they warned
Still did I crave

Now had my fill
Returned home from the grave

Back up above
Up from below
Now under sky
No longer crave what waits down below

425

Good Morning—Midnight—
I’m coming Home—
Day—got tired of Me—
How could I—of Him?

Sunshine was a sweet place—
I liked to stay—
But Morn—didn’t want me—now—
So—Goodnight—Day!

I can look—can’t I—
When the East is Red?
The Hills—have a way—then—
That puts the Heart—abroad—

You—are not so fair—Midnight—
I chose—Day—
But—please take a little Girl—
He turned away!

I pick you up in my hand
A red apple from the cart
I turn you over and run my hands along your curves
I see your beauty
I see it speckled with imperfections
Red so deep
Like crimson
You look so sweet
But there is much you could be hiding
I toss you in the air
and catch you
I see the sun reflect off your polished surface
I see your dark spots absorb the sun
I twist your stem and take it
I smell your skin
and estimate your circumfrence
All around me they are filling their bags
to be measured
piling them full
taking so many of you without a second thought
But I have many thoughts
I wonder
and I wonder
Who you are really
I don't see you like they see you
I don't know you like they think they do
I'm not like them
at all
Are you what I am looking for?
Oh, small red apple
Will you show me who I am?
Will you help me or harm me?
Will you liberate me or cage me?
Will I find in you my identity?
Are you what I truly want?
Perhaps I will buy you,
or
Perhaps I will leave you
or
Perhaps I will continue to hold you and wonder
until we both rot away.

I am a but a simple poet
A mere poet who is madly in love
Who had always aspired to write
The most beautiful poem

And that poem
I envision it to contain
Hundreds of adjectives
Describing beauty
Thousands of metaphors
Expressing desire to kiss soft lips
Millions of words
Of which, every single one
A pellucid manifestation
Of emotions I laboriously subdued
Within the confines of my chest
It shall include rhymes
Mellifluous tunes that pleasures the ears
Plus lines and verses
Embodying the flames of love

Then realization strikes me violently
Such concept will not produce
What is greatly desired
But I, a simple poet
Still has written the most beautiful poem
To ever exist
And it is written like this:



You.