There was a moment, so unexpected,
When I woke, seeking just ordinary,
Resigned to loneliness, unconnected,
Our encounter—felt imaginary.

Seeking isolation, no need for lust,
Appreciation gone, beauty no more,
Passion burned, with eyes I no longer trust,
You—a seduction I’d not known before.

Pulling back from feeling, and nakedness,
All the beauty, futile, unrequited,
Choosing instead dullness, and wretchedness,
Our spark—an extinguished soul ignited.

Recoiling, fear, cursed sexuality,
Libidinous impulses, uncontrolled,
Bare, on altars of sensuality,
You—inviting love I cannot withhold.

Kiss me, hold me, bring my love in deeper,
Forgive me, embrace me, don’t let me be still,
Touch me, and own me, and be my keeper,
Your look—I resisted, but have lost my will.

I think with my feelings, not with my mind.
My persistent heart leaves my brain behind.
The world that I see seems ever so real,
But I can never sense more than I feel.

While reason and passion fight over me,
I experience emotionally.
Instead of judging with thoughts in my head,
I’d rather resolve them in dreams instead.

I occupy life as if fantasy.
Truth without feeling seems a fallacy.
I trust in those instincts that bring me tears
And tune out rational words in my ears.

I’m giving up on following logic.
Too many thoughts have been catastrophic.
I no longer care what I’m thinking of.
From now on I listen only to love.

Calming with the softness of your skin,
Sated of my hunger for your kiss,
Nourished by the state you put me in,
Feeding this soul’s appetite for bliss.

Craving delicacies of your eyes,
Sensing sunrise warmth of your embrace,
Mornings such as this I energize
With anticipation of your face.

Awake to the honey of your tongue
And fluttering eyelash on my cheek,
You’re the morning hope of day still young,
You provide for me the love I seek.

To stir from my complacency
With the words as my compulsion,
Poems feel like a eulogy
Of my not-dead-yet emotion.

I write to be a memory
For either fondness or for ill,
With words of perpetuity
So that no reader’s heart is still.

The solemn thoughts trapped in my head,
My fingers type to let them out,
So my embarrassment is read
By strangers I know not about.

Writing with ego’s delusion
That when I die my words survive,
But my ironic conclusion
Is that I write to stay alive.

All criticism
Comes from the illusion of bravery,
From the pedestal
On which the lowliest men sit highest.

All criticism
Is someone’s projected false confidence,
From the pedestal
Upon which those who can do no wrong fall.

All criticism
Is a descent to egomania,
From the pedestal
Above small specks of blinding delusion.

All criticism
Derived from eyes whose lenses are mirrors,
From the pedestal
Elevated by its isolation.

The tenuous sense of self is crumbling
In a gentle breeze of slight rejection,
Whose worth is broken by extreme humbling
So breaking true self’s the self’s protection.

Breaking down instead of standing strong
Means the world must clean up all your pieces.
Even when the self feels the self is wrong
And the will to hold yourself releases.

The human soul is stronger than the hand.
The self survives outside a lover’s grip.
When you crumble you need to understand
Your own love is the greatest partnership.

You never considered how much trouble
It is to find heartbeats in the rubble.