words have so much power
you can bring someone up just as fast as you tear them down
you can create passion with a pen
go back and forth with your words
over and over again
without even seeing the face you see into the mind
soul searching becomes easy
he's already found mine
the disadvantage of knowing a poet
you cannot successfully hide
you cannot play games and disguise what you feel
because poets of all people know that it's real
emotions and feelings not felt once before
should i open a window or unlock the door?

we slipped up and got tangled
in sheets of passion
and amidst the anger
the getting caught in the moment
the need for release because
i was just so ******* *******
you crossed my mind
and i almost said your name

I'm not the poet who uses sophisticated language
I'm not the kid my parents would be proud of
I'm not the student the teacher praises
I'm not the friend who people turn to

I'm not anyone's best friend
I'm not anyone's favorite
I'm not anyone's first choice
I'm not even my own believer

I want to fix my life
Yet I want to end it
I want to be better
Yet I'm tired of trying

What is wrong with me?

If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".

8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)

You get the idea.

But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.

I dreamt I killed a man.
Somebody really burnt
the old mill to the ground
down in a crackling
bonfire
as half the town just watched,
eyes wide and gaping mouths
like mackerel.
My skin is whiter
than the snowdrops
in my garden. I imagine
you, kissing my belly.
I wish someone would just
relight me.

Give me one reason to
grin and I'll
give you ten reasons to
frown.
Show me something
to cherish
and I'll throw
the rest of
this stash
away.

Offer me another
chance and I'll
probably take it.

Prove to me
none of it was
worth it and
I'll force
myself to agree.

Explain to me once more
how they walk around,
drive around,
fly around so blind
to it all and I
still won't
understand.

Present to me
the reasoning
of my past.
Justify my suffering,
and I'll write you
a tragedy full of
realness,
and beauty.

I don't calculate, I experience,
Mapping a constant circle
Of endless enlightenment;
Your line of logic runs tangent
And I need no proof that
My limit does not exist.