I'll write you a poem
when you break my heart into pieces.

I'll write you a poem
when you leave and ruin me.

I'll write you a poem
I want my heart good and broken.

Use me like a rag doll

and I'll write beautiful
and bittersweet
words.

"Not all who wander
are lost"
Yet still, I wonder
where am I
and where are we going?

But I know where I am
I'm in a library,
sipping a coffee
lost in my thoughts

Any of which range
from "what's for dinner?"
to "why am I here?"
Ranging from shallow
to deep.

My mind making
leap to leap.
Leaving me confused
and wondering,
Where am I
and where are we going?

I no longer hate the areas
you used to criticize.
My arms. Stomach.
Hair and my thighs.

I no longer get sick
when I stare deep
into my eyes.

The shape of my face
to the curves from my hips
feels like a poem
that fell from a great poet's lips.

I sing all the time because your words
can't hold me down
won't hold me down

and I smile too,
makes no sense to frown.
My body is glorious
who cares if it's vain.

3am the Enemy
3am the demons come out to play
coursing through the soul
the heart- it’s prey
The mind- the playground
monkey bars
and jungle gyms
a place where ‘what-if’s’
hang and linger
the air is pungent
and regret permeates
the night humidity
all but makes the stench lesser
putrid like rotting garbage
like the doll you
had to keep you safe
as a little child
that since should’ve been thrown
away
years ago.
the haven for mold
and dust mites
and other things toxic
3am
human’s one true
enemy.

The crickets serenaded her
and she danced in the moonlight
a slow waltz
savoring the feeling
of the dew drops.
Bare foot and free
she sings a soft melody
with the owl
in the pine tree.
The moon guiding her
safe and sound.
She danced.
She was free.

Trees loom in the shadows.
Forbidding and threatening.
It reeks of 3am.
The animals hush their cooing.
The cars drive a little slower.
The rain is a bit colder.
It pierces the skin.
Each drop an ice dagger.
The sounds all around.
Enormous in weight.
The silent screams out.
The shadows come out to play.
Monsters and demons
make homes in the hearts
of the lonely still awake.
Of the poet
who feels 3am
as a kindred spirit.
Who knows lonliness in the pits
of his stomach.
He swallows sadness
and mashes his pillow
fighting the urge
to just cradle it to his chest.
It reminds him of
the eternal her
The girl who loved nighttime
who craved the cool dew
of the sleeping grass
under her barefeet
as she waltzed under the moonlight
with owls hooting
their sweet lullaby.
She swayed and danced
light as feathers
and she always danced
in his mind.
And she always danced
in his mind.