I thought it would help
Reading these poems about love
But no, it does not

Oh, I remember so well
how your skin against mine
tasted like honey but sweeter
and softer
yes

No, it did not.

I remember when
My forehead touched yours
yes I remember
Your beautiful scent

Sweat and
*** and curly hair. It was not
not beautiful

Oh when we loved and kissed and pressed
so longingly together
and caressed each other
into the blueberry night
yes yes I remember!

In the back of that bar?
She never loved you and
You promised to stop.

And you loved me! Yes, we
talked and laughed and kissed each day
Those blackberries we shared
You did, you did!

She left you for him. You were just
one of the many she liked to see
and kiss at night

But
But
But no that can't be
Because I remember so well!
How your skin against my lips tasted like
honey but sweeter and softer
And the smell of your hair
And your body
and mine tangledupsotight...

No

I beg you.
Just stop.

THE solidarity of these faces in the boarding line;
Leaves on a golden, buoyant branch.

I walk along the path of you and me
And find what once we carved'n mahogany
So small and deep that only I can see
What's ours among the lies an'disloyalty.
The tree he stands, weathered, washed up, and strong;
A testament to love so young n'impure -
Each dent is proof of lust declared for long
By youth enamored far err they grow, mature.
Ours too, is there, cut deep into the bark.
The 'L . plus J.' hidden among the many,
whose hopeless love required assurance - that mark
to keep their ferv'r from fall to worth a-penny
       But hark, my dear, I hope our mark does fade
       For ours, in heart, trumps any a-tree has made.

Those who write poetry feel too much

They feel too much pain
Too much joy
Too much sadness
Too much freedom and hate
Too much compassion and love

They are not normal and some
Do think them quite strange
For normal people would be ok
To push their feelings away
But see a poet, he can not
just push them away
What he feels must erupt
onto the page
Otherwise he risks
being enraged

It is their blessed curse
To live without a buffer
To feel all they can feel
and push none away

But thank God for these people
for from their suffering and joy, comes art.
Beautiful,
Heart wrenching art.

It is a wild animal
This creature who lives in my chest
Who rests easy, sometimes  (but rarely), behind the
bars that are my ribs

When he gets his way
(When she smiles coyly at us)
he purrs and
wow it feels so good
so good
so deeply resonating
the vibrations shake those bars

But
when he wants (needs)
what we can not have
(When she walks with that boy not us)
His claws, oh, his claws how they hurt when they dig
His angst, his dread, his red savage eyes
spitting and scratching
tearing, ripping
and breaking those bars

Stop! Please! I say to him.
It hurts! It hurts.
But he does not listen,
He is after all
a wild beast

He rips and he tears
Until I give him what he wants
Until I break my own morals
And I kiss her on the mouth
again and again until
His roar and his cry
His screams of triumph
**** my body with tremors
trof joy

If only a leash or a clasp,
obedience could
tame him

If only I could tell him
no
stop

But alas, that is not how it is
he does not care what I say
It is a wild animal
the creature that lives in here
inside my chest
behind these
bars that are my ribs
so close
so unfortunately close
to my beating heart

touch me
hold me
nuzzle me
she said to me

kiss me please

love me
I should have said to her

softly
love me please

I should have said to her