I'm a murderer
Did you know?
I would tell you
Confession
But the guilt is too much
What would you think?
I know what I think
Young
Stupid
Naive
Selfish
SELFISH
I tend not to think of it
When I do, murderer
What would the life have been
I stole away
Murderer I am

I want to, but struggle
To write about this thing called love
Relating so much more to despair
Having felt it for so long
So used to living in loneliness

I want love
or do I?
What is it I want
So long having been a shell
That I forgot what it is to be alive

So how is it
How does one express love
Using a piece of paper
It just isn't enough
When despair falls so freely

See, very few words can express love
If any
Words are not enough for love
But despair, oh despair
How you mock me
I could speak of you for eons
Despair, so infinitely defined by any word

So again I ask
How does a poet speak of love
With so much despair outside looking in

The ******* pain hits me hard again

I want to crawl in the hole deep down the earth core

I know I will survive

I know it shall pass

But what's new?

Time will take everything away

But I don't believe in time

It is so predictable like this process

Bored the **** out of me

I want to cut the time into little pieces

And set them in the fire

Only to prove

That I don't need time to live

Around her neck hung a remarkable cameo,
Of a girl who looked quite like herself.

Carved from the most precious of gems,
Her translucent flesh seemed to glow in the sunlight.
Her features were a shinning example of beauty.
Hair was a challenge, yet each of hers were delicate and precisely cut.
There was not a chip or a crack in her smooth face.
She was surely a masterpiece.

And I could say the same for the cameo.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt
what is right
but then this... time and space
a half a world away
is that what it is then
that would deprive me of true happiness
afraid
nay not just afraid, terrified
of the day I wake and walk out of this dream
the one with promises that can't possibly be promised
and nay I do not blame you
no I blame the vastness of time
and the unseen forces that seem to feed on misery
I do not want to be realistic
I do not want to be feasible
I want to fight this reality every minute
and live in denial
but I will wait and see
please winds of change don't rip away my dreams

An open book...

     closed.

I'm not done...

     reading you yet.

Some days I am Ana's teacher, some days she is mine.
This morning, we look through her kitchen window,
the one she can't get clean, cobwebs massed
between sash and pane. The sky is blue-gold, almost
the color of home.
Ana, I say, each winter
I get more lonely. Both of us would like the sun
to linger as that round fruit in June, but Ana says
it's better to forget what you used to know...

please—
don’t worry;
about the feelings you cannot quite muster
or the actions you cannot quite accomplish—
for simply having you here
would suffice.

[for it is not always the ocean
or the waves themselves that bring peace,
indeed—
sometimes, simply a scent of sea air
can be enough
to put one at ease.]

and do not ask
why I wait at the window,
on this blustery winter night,
candles flickering in the den,
flames snapping in the fireplace,
pots sizzling on the stove—

instead,
inquire as to how long I will wait
until you sweep in with snow sleeping on your eyelashes,
the zephyr of the west still singing in your ears,
an exhausted smile of bruised hope dancing with your dimpled cheeks—
for yes,
oh yes,
I am still here,
waiting.

please, do not worry,
for the night is young,
the stove will keep warm,
and if I sleep, I will wake at the door—
for I will greet you with blankets wrapped around my shoulders
in which to bring you warmth,
and my toes will stretch to allow me to hold you closer,
but my words will truly bring you in from the cold:
have peace, for all is well, my love.
all is well with our souls.

[and the snowflakes will melt into tears of joy.]