“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”
— John Keating, Dead Poets Society

My heart played notes
inside the margins of time
in repeated sighs
while the world kept rhythm
on my self-esteem
with the feet of strangers.  
Still, last night
I wrote lines about life and love
that whispered come dance with me,
kiss away........
my jaded words of anger.

I raised my glass to life
then ran
from the very air I once breathed in
and called a masterpiece,
because each breath I took in
made me stand tall.  
Until, I found I had been feasting
on teardrops telling me
I had gone astray
each time.......
they'd start to fall.

You were there all along
singing I love you
underneath my skin
while each breath I took
cried out
inside the margins of time perfectly
and my heart played notes
until my teardrops dried
on the feet of strangers
walking.......
on the heart of me.

maybe I'm filled to the
brim like cupped hands under
the bathroom faucet

maybe the words that scorch this
tenderness in my mind with lonely
potency are yellow children of
a summer sun and its flower bride

maybe laughter is a dance

maybe when we get down to it, we
never really go anywhere, remain
hand-in-hand across state lines

and this heart snuggles up with
that one and the two grow stronger
out of their freedom heat

maybe I'm thinking too often, but
these thoughts orbit you like stars,
keeping me company until morning