Why did I just do that?
Why can't I do anything right?
Why do I have to eat?
Why do I have to look like this?
Why can't I look like her?
Why can't I tell you anything?
Why do I love this so much?

Maybe really all we are
is con artists,
magicians good with words
lucky enough to find some fool
who thinks what we say
is worth something.

she was charming like a couple of adorable synonyms in a sentence,
yet so obscure like a quiet full-stop at the end of paragraph.

Not everything I can make into a poem
like the sky just after rain
her embroidered smile its minutest hem
in her shade of cornea a grain of pain!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like wind eddies from wings of bird
her amorous veil that stokes my flame
in her lips’ quiver the unuttered word!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like the heron’s swoosh on the moon of marsh
her endless aroma without a name
in her eyes the million stars!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like when perches the bird on nest
her flushed cheeks in love game
in her kiss the sea salt’s taste!

Ring your arms
Around my neck
And call me
“dead”
Because that
Is what I am.
Pain is love, like a
Room full of broken
Mirrors
Single mirror stands
Reflecting what is
True.

They'll tell you
That they want you
And they need you
And they love you
But the truth is
Love is a dog from hell
And you're just a stack
Of bones