Every morning I wake up,
I hope to find Nirvana at the bottom of my coffee cup.
The only problem is when I see the white floor
peeking through the sea of brown,
I realized I forgot to pay my student loans.

If the sky was falling, would you ever be able to take your eyes off of it for a second to remember why the world was beautiful in the first place?

Or would you just watch as it engulfed everything that ever mattered and wonder why it would do that to you?

My Favorite time of day
is actually at night.
It’s those loving moments
just before sleep,
him coiled around my body.

I cherish those last grasps at waking life.
The way his body fits to mine
so perfectly, so kind.
Our skin barely brushing
but it’s calming none the less.

I love hearing his voice
hushed and full of sleep
whispering his love for me
before we both drift off.
The words come

with a familiar grace
I have only found with him.
The sound of his shallow breaths
lull me to sleep
like a soothing summer breeze.

Those are the moments
that make the bad days alright,
that make everything worth while,
that make night
my favorite time of day.

Fat, sweaty men
in ill-fitting suits
during the middle
of a scorching
Leo August
are the most
uncomfortable,
but not as
uncomfortable
as me when
in the presence
of a Leo who
makes me
sweat, but for
all the wrong
reasons.

This is a poem.
And there was a tree.
And a person underneath.
Gravity happened.
An apple fell.
It rolled on the ground.
Many things roll.
Like a ball on a smooth surface.
That was a comparison.
Poems work best with relation.
Some people love.
Some people fear.
That is enough for some.
Black and white is simple.
Some like complexity.
Metaphors.
Obscurity.
And in the end.
I guess what every author wants.
Is someone to take the time and read.
If only from beginning to end.
This is the end of the poem.

Love may be a four letter word but
today it sounds more like
your breath when we're close.
Today it looks more like
your hands endlessly moving
and fiddling with things.
Today it feels more like
your arms around me in the middle of June.
Today love is an overreaction
but I like it.
Today love is said more like
"You should stay here with me."
or "Do you want the rest of my drink?"
Today love smells more like
wet grass and guitar reverb
and air conditioned cars.
Today my head is more like
"I don't even know you."
but my heart is more like
"Who the hell cares?"
Today love is more like
you.

It must be this third cup
of coffee that has me on
edge. But not to confuse
anxiety for indigestion.
I'm sick to my ******* stomach.

Maybe you could be a little sweeter?

I said, maybe you could pass the sweetener.

I'm not one to stir the ***,
but I need something fresh.
This is stale, and the grinds
taste like pennies.
My spit is red.

The best part of waking up,
is having a *** to **** in,
to have a glass half full,
but who is the fool?

The fool is the man,
that runs out of coffee filters,
and uses toilet paper,
instead.

I drink my coffee black.
It's an absolute.
Why mix cream?
When I don't believe,
everything is so black,
and white.