~~
when I write poetry
the season falls down
and there is a distinct dark in the town
but yet you
as like the pearl
of a winter morning dew
though you're on the other side
of a shadow wall
which is sky height tall
that I have seen
but you do not come to that reach
never been
~~

I write with honesty and drape it with emotion.

I wash my words with tears and dry them in anger.

I never read my words out loud, my tongue has no taste for them.

I don't notice anyone sees my writes as I notice nobody feels them.

I tap my words on to a screen as I watch my tv.

I write my words just with me and expect nobody.

Words scrape raw into my mind, on to the screen.

They reap my pain in the most simplest way.

It's not very beautiful, not like my hello poetry friends, but it's just like me no time for etiquette.

The words stumble from my mind, much like someone who has lost thier way.

And my heart reads into every line, even when I say I bare none.

Be it rushed, sloppy and brazen...

My words always always find their way onto my hello poetry page.

I get lost in all of my fellow writers, writes.

But it's no surprise, because that's how it is in my everyday life.

I'm lost and I'm found, alot down and almost never sound.

I write how I live.

I write only what I live...

My echoes are all I have to give to my hello poetry friends.

Words can be silenced
Only for a lifetime
But my words will live on,
And my ghost won't be gone
Until night til the dawn,
My poetry will spill
Like ripened wine.
I'm everlasting
To everlasting.
My body may be passing
But my eternity is forever,
Like a perennial rosebud
My locution hangs with the
Good that's to come,
And hushed I shall not be.

A charcoal black butterfly
with tiny bits of lavender
trim and through my twill
and fibers
I believed myself beautiful
and flew higher
with growing speed
and lengthening wing.
Someone told me
you're wrong, you're a moth,
as if it was an insult.
My wings vertical up
in the sun I fly
bulbous topped antennae
and why
I'd be called a moth,
I mean, nocturnal I find divine,
and in my tiny flying mind
knowing there are more moths
than butterflies
sensed belonging along a greater swath.
Away from my predator I flew
gracefully buoyantly
in an even better mood
saying in my tiny flying mind
... thank you.

Oh won't you butter my squash?

Clean my seeds
Like the sins of my past

The baked passion inside
The oven racks
Racks
Racks

Stack the inner radiance
And peal me

The smooth orange paste
Will feel really zesty

Stay here on my cutting board
Send knives of kisses

Be merciless inside the sink
Blinking boiling stink

And watch as I eat your intestines