I'm trading sticks of cigarette for a poem
Bottles of beer for a few more
Whiskeys make me forlorn
Why not a few more poems
So I scribble and scribble some more

I'm trading my loneliness for lines
Rhymed or rhymeless, why should I mind
When the please the eyes and tickles the mind
I sure will memorize and mimic them like a mime
So I'm still scribbling on this torn paper of mine

I'm trading my hearts pain
Trading it for a paper and a pen
Like a painter ready to paint
I deep my petite paint brush in a bowl of paint
Dap dap, little dots, strokes and dashes as I dare to paint
Little by little the whole picture is becoming plain

I'm trading all love's tears
Tears shade in secrecy for a poem shared publicly
Though seemingly absurd but poems brings this inconceivable peace.
So I'm scribbling and scribbling my way to serenity.

I trade it all for a piece of poem
I may not have made the point
But I've washed clean my plough
And starring at this beautiful not-so-beautiful poem
I have read and reread it that it is starting to sound like a song.
Reading one last time, "my best trade ever".

You've bruises on your thighs,
both sides of skin beat and red.
If this is how he says hello to you
then maybe it's time leave, or is
it time to relieve yourself with
hits and smacks and colourful
comic-book thwacks back so his
****** nose can complement those
he gave you that time in spring.

Take your glass slippers and be
one of those girls in red dresses;
dance, twist, and twirl as well as
the rest of them, churn up that
dance floor ring and take time
out for more drinks, rehydrate
before looking for another long-
term date to be a tactile touch-er
with, another involved and committed
lover.

Take note from the pint husbands
and their half-pint wives around you,
pen a note to yourself for the future
beginning with,
Listen,
then moving swiftly on with,
If you find another man that hits
before he kisses you than you've picked wrong,
ending with,
*You've plenty of time left, stay strong.

I know you've got a heart of gold and emotions that run along your sleeves
but lately,
you're better with a bottle and some scrapped knees.

You're introverted
A minuet ******

But it's not the the skin you bare
Or the the way you touch
It's the way you've given up

You grew into the buildings
And buried yourself inside
between a mattress and ***** sheets

They won't save you
No, my beautiful raggedy Anne
No, they'll turn that heart of gold to stone
They'll paint your face with prophecies-
Little indecencies
You'll be ripped from some ***** banks magazine
A pin up doll
Such a perfectly decayed dream
I want to cut the string that holds you up

Hit the ground running-
Remove your mind from others hands and
Fight

Let bad blood filter into the streets and watch the acquainted burn into the night

Swoon, swindled, spindled, and spun.
Wisp of a hand,
to the possession of tongues.

With your lungs producing breath; methane gas.
Lips like matches,
with tendencies to strike,
engulfing us in a passionate blaze.

Bodies connected in the dark,
the silhouette of your euphoric body proved that ignorance was needed and illumination,
never needed.

                                        Settle.


Intert­wined in the repose,
Was the leaf to our stick.
Fathomed indentation
Tethered in our unspoken script

Heavy apparitions conjured from tight gasps.
Releasing 3 whispered words,
becomes our catalyst.
One embedded in your eyes
     A riptide
          of size to rise
the ties
           in the endearing future of our lives
    until we say our goodbyes
you'll shed this pain that cuts like knives.

Daydreaming of electric wires.
Tiptoeing on what
hangs lower than our fire.
Closed currents in the air
You continue the shock
as your fingers dance through my hair.

We're the flowers and petals,
withered into the passion we're plagued with.
Oh so crowded,
We're cursive
Characters tied in knots,
We can't be split.

Fearing the closure,
We mustn't ever be print...



...Fragmented, affluent, vacant, and split.
The script unraveled
Not cursive,
now print.