Has my existence meant nothing to you?
did you lie to me when you spoke of the electricity that sparked as our lips first touched under the stars?
because now all I see is you,
with her.
so quickly, the "love" you had disappeared?
I hope you're reminded of my erupting breathe tickling your skin,
my tongue that performed a dance with yours,
and my soul that gave it all to you.
remember that, remember me,
when you decide to caress someone else's soul.

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

Write in pen, not in pencil.
Such as in life,
we cannot erase.
Only mark, and scribble, and
smudge it away.
But the mistakes persist.
We write new lines,
new words,
new stories,
past the darkened marks
of our accidents,
in hopes we remain perfcet
onward, afterward,
only to misstep, miswrite,
misrepresent who we are and
permanently leave imperfect
marks upon the pages of
others' lives.

For some,
life
is simply
an experiment
to see
how many
knives
and
arrows
to the back
one person
can take
and remain
standing.