The sunrise was a shadow’s shine,
The birds sung their songs out of tune,
The rooster crowed silent alarm,
As if each day began at noon.

The dew was dried before it formed,
The moonlight never left the sky,
The pre-dawn dreams never took hold,
The darkness never said goodbye.

The bedroom shades were never raised,
The morning haze was ever still,
The alarm clock did its mime act,
The morning’s sunlight brought a chill.

It seems the Earth forgot to turn,
There was no morning to wake to,
Looking back this is how it was,
Before I woke up next to you.

I breathe memories of every feeling,
A heart pumping emotions through my veins,
Inhaling air of heartache for healing,
To feel nothing but feelings eases pains.

Nourishing my hunger with my loves lost,
Sustaining myself on passionate thought,
Feeding on my feelings at any cost,
Sated by feelings the memories brought.

Loves old and love new are my source of life,
The deep passions I’ve had fill up my lungs,
With strengthening heartbeats beating on strife,
While the sweetness of loving is the tongue’s.

No need to eat or breathe yet still survive,
To be in love is all I need to thrive.

I’ve written words needed but unwanted,
As one who fights a war of last resort,
Disrespecting heartbreaks that I flaunted
While shaping memories I could distort.

Those unwanted poems that I needed,
All written in defiance of my nerve,
Every one of them should be deleted—
I still don’t know what purpose that they serve.

I cursed my hand so it would write no more,
But the words fought battles of attrition,
Oozing out as if from an open sore,
To heal the despair of my condition.

I’ve no desire to ever return to
The places my words so often bring me.
But it seems writing them I learn to
Appreciate the gift of being me.

Shall I say “I love you” again?
Endless fawning adoration,
I fear there will be a day when
You tire of my adulation.

But those words are bound up in me,
And I can’t hold “I love you” in,
They cry out with sincerity,
Though to your ears they might wear thin.

“I love you” is significant,
It shows you how I want to live,
Born of feeling magnificent,
But sometimes all I have to give.

Forgive for each I “love you,”
Don’t dismissively demean it,
They’re only spoken if they’re true,
And each time a man should mean it.

The hands of time
Count our endless moments.
The hands we hold
Energize love through touch.
The hands that give
Take away our torments.
The hands that heal
Can remedy so much.
The hands that bless
Bring grace upon our soul.
The hands that serve
Make sure we’re not alone.
The hands that write
Use words to make us whole.
The hands that love
Are the best hands to own.

Peeling off layers of humility
To at last reveal authenticity,
To exhibit my pride most shamelessly,
I accept this vulnerability.

To be who I am confronts irony,
As still letters mask personality.
The art form I love has complicity—
The true self hides inside true poetry.

To shed this self-loathing ability,
And be honest in rhyme’s complexity,
I create pages of pure fantasy
That speak the words I feel most honestly.

Words tend to survive mortal’s history,
Past their reflection of reality,
So they seem written with mendacity,
Though lies are beyond my capacity.

Today I acknowledge futility
Of a poem that lacks identity.
This writer makes no more apology—
I am written words and the words are me.

I hear your echo in silence,
Your voice speaks to me in quiet,
With ears that hear feelings, not words,
In a heart to amplify it.

Your clearest words were not spoken,
But they resounded in my ears,
In a heart tuned to perfect pitch
Of loving feelings that it hears.

I listen to your heart beating
To know the words you have to say,
My heart understands love language
Said from a million miles away.

In despair that causes deafness,
Hope is the comfort your voice speaks,
With ears you’ve given to my heart
Your love is what my silence seeks.