It's nearly our bedtime and you're asleep now,
you have been for hours--actually--just as I knew
you would be when you first lay down tangled
in a net of blankets, promising, "I won't, I won't"
with drowsy confidence after asked if you were going
to sleep. "I just want to lie down," your gentle hand
shooed me away. And so I went, leaving a light trail
of kisses so I could find my way back.

through words,
I heal my wounds
by completely exposing them

I have trouble keeping up
with myself these days.
I waited a year just to starve out
the taste you left in my mouth
for possibility.

Maybe you still live there.
Maybe you're still seeing that girl,
the pretty one from San Pedro
who made jewelry for a living.

It's a sweet and cradling thought,
the unknowing. What's sweeter still
is feeling such confidence that I
will never know.

We set the Standard, you and I.
Smoking **** in secret, out on the balcony,
you were that sophisticated sort of ******
that makes me want you to meet my mom.

If you're going to hate me for what I write,
you're going to hate me sooner or later anyway.

Fearing my own mind for the sake of your heart.
Being less than an artist just doesn't feel right.
If you can't love my art, well, then you can't love me.
The words have to pour out, then they are both
never and forever mine. You can take them,

or leave me.

It has nothing to do with what inspires you
or what makes you makes you happy.

Art is about whatever it is that makes your
heart scratch at the inside of its own walls.