Swirling and swirling,
that was how the coffee went
as I stirred it,
wishing at the same time
that I could go into the whirlpool
and just drown.

And I drank the coffee
without cooling it,
not caring if it burns my throat.
I felt it trace a warm trail
on my esophagus
and scatter on my chest.
It finally reached my heart
which has been cold for so long.
The feeling was comforting.

Today an eyelash fell on my wrist,
and with my breath it sailed
on a wish.
That my heart will one day be
a little candle flame,
a faint hopeful spark,
to someone just as lost in the dark
as I am.

Why is it that at night I could still feel every part of you
Your breath brushing against my ears
Only to whisper the words of "good night"
Your firm arms tightly holding my petite torso
While your every finger intertwined with mine
Or how your right leg wrapped around my left
And then there's your rosy pink lips
I could still feel it passionately pressed against mine
I miss it
I miss you
Every part of you.

you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
dark
snotty
gross
subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind
almost breaks
under those
death-like
sounds
and the
intermingling
odors:
hard
unwashed socks
****** and
*******
underwear
and over it all
slowly circulating
air
much like that
emanating from
uncovered
garbage
cans.
and those
bodies
in the dark
fat and
thin
and
bent
some
legless
armless
some
mindless
and worst of
all:
the total
absence of
hope
it shrouds
them
covers them
totally.
it's not
bearable.
you get
up
go out
walk the
streets
up and
down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back
up
the same
street
thinking
those men
were all
children
once
what has happened
to
them?
and what has
happened
to
me?
it's dark
and cold
out
here.

Sitting by the fire,
He raised a glass,
Whispering words,
Of his secret past,

A solitary tear,
Wiped slowly away,
Hiding the pain,
Of that fateful day,

As a curious child,
I always wondered why,
My heroic father,
Would sit and cry,

Or wake up screaming,
Soaked in his bed,
Telling my mother,
The noise in his head,

As I grew old,
I understood why,
My soldier father,
Would sit and cry,

He lost his family,
Not linked by blood,
He witnessed things,
That no human should,

Affected by the war,
Still to this day,
His PTSD,
Is stuck on replay.

Twisted branches reach skyward  
locked together in formation
Something like a work of art
Impossible to look away
from detailed placement
So intricately woven and weaving
A lonely twisted thirsty looking tree
reaching for rain

some girls will leave fingerprints on your skin that'll wash off over time. I leave gashes in your sanity that will never go away

everyone's in love with forests and forest fires but I'm just the gasoline and piles of sticks, you're the match

do your curtains and bedroom walls still whisper my name, or did hers overlap mine