Why sleep, why wake up?
Two is like a dream, unsure
Which is true, I ponder...

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

This spoon is bigger than my plate
these green peas are bigger than your mouth
like the big words that are bigger than this conversation
It’s making this evening hard to swallow
your big eyes are bigger than my lies
and this lie is bigger than the both of us
you tell me to be the bigger man
now here I am

there was a moment in time
when death sat beside me on a park bench
and he had rested his hand on the gap between us

i,

too,

rested my hand there
and brushed my fingers against his

and for a chaste moment
i savoured the warmth of his skin
and intertwined my hand with his

but he stood up

and left

and maybe he knew,

it was for the better.