He doesn't know what to say
And usually he find something quick and witty
When he's  with her he can feel the clouds disappear
And it makes him wanna smile
But then smacked by reality that its a dream
A part of mind that puts him at rest for once
A restless soul he is but don't say
Night he must stay in
Otherwise he'll be cut down from his roots
He knows its not fair and that  it's  life
How people take what they can
And run with what's closest
Every night he goes to sleep hoping he took to much mental NyQuil
Finally be at rest
A mind state that he can say he appreciates
But he's the night
A humble warrior who suffers with quiet scars
A tear roles down his face
I wake up
To find out it was me

do you remember when we
were children, and we would spin
in circles for minutes straight
just to make ourselves dizzy?

that's how my head feels when
i see you these days- it's like i can
feel the world rotating under my
feet- every thought, every edge
blurring until they're gone, but
(luckily) this paper is lined thick and
your name alone
is poetry.

soft spoken secrets slice through the silence
     like coffee-breathed cannonballs
sent shamelessly into the space between
          who we are
               and who we will be

the smile in your eyes makes it seem
as if you really see me

pinned beneath a perfectly blue egyptian cotton sky
     and a lake-shore brown box-spring earth
          you stretch yourself thin
     thin as eyelash lace across a freckled chest
     thin enough to let the sunshine gleam through
          through all your light and magic
               reflecting pure stardust onto my my blank screened flesh

i've never felt as beautiful
as it is to be tangled up in you

extremities snagging one another
     in a devine blend
          of feverish feinding
               and something far more freeing

     i'd trade my unsteady pulse
     for every day to begin this way
drenched in poetry
and morning dew
and crazed, excited grinning

how about you toss me a post-card
     through our dreaming
     one of these evenings

          yes

my heart strings are singing

     this is the beging of a story
that i quite like

Kindred spirit, the privilege is mine, it's just that I,
I never finish because there is nothing going on, nothing to go on.

All right, all right, all right,
you're right,
I don't write as much as I used to,
but in all fairness (to myself)
I feel a bit more loose.

Never mean to,
but I guess I argue
a lot in order to hide
how much I really don't care;
Celina said it's not okay
but
that at least I know
it's insulting.


I only want to be in my body
when your feathery fingers graze my spine.
That tone an angel loaned
to you can ripple through
the void, make a soft,
translucent puddle out of reality,
can you see me
on the other side?

Don't say I'm angry,
it's just that
no one has ever really tried
to impress me, so I'm scared
I guess.

Remember you are here,
don't be weird about the types of things
sentimentality will bring,
will string along to the
forefront of an open sore;
no one pours the sink a whiskey
drink until the girls are crying out above the stars,
better yet, stirring them from afar
for their own faults, for being
fickle with love
and their own hearts.

You know I don't sleep much,
You know I don't dream of such
pretty things but I could imagine
how you, in a different life,
were gifted eternal wings.

Those that brought you to me.

I would weep

if I wasn't made of stone.

Stop. Stop trying to save yourself, self prescription never works and we all know your sole reason for suffering is to look sad and beautiful.