We met beneath the mushroom
And drank dew drops from great-
grandfather's horn. Drunk we swoon
Lips of purple berry parted.

We lie on the warm belly of a hare
And it's heart like a kettle drum
Fills us to the brim with joy
Sunset and moonrise
**** we swim in a puddle
Laughing pale as newborn babes

I oft' recall the music of that laughter
When I am alone, but I am old now
And you have long since become stone

once I get
the writing juice flowing
it never stops
pouring
over me
into every part
of my life
every conversation
I find myself
making art with my words
or, trying to.

literature,
specifically poetry
has become an escape for me
instead
of substance abuse
or video games
or seeking
attention
I write
my thoughts down
make them
real
take them
by the hand
guide them to the door
and close the door on the way out.
but
I love
watching them leave.
it is the best part.

poetry
is the woman for me.
I have been waiting
for her
searching
for someone
who calms me
pleases me
inspires me
for what seems like my whole life
and we have finally met.
I will hold her close
I will love her
and I will
explore her body
with all of mine
caressing
her smooth skin
with my fingertips,
my mouth
my tongue
I will taste her
and savor it
I will appreciate
all of her curves
and beauty
the flaws, too
she never leaves me unsatisfied
I promise
to never leave her
I promise
to appreciate all of her, always

I never was keen
to the concept
of an open relationship
but she has me experimenting.
I am content
if she sees others
and lets them
appreciate
her delicate, perfect body
the way
the ***
is better than anything else
I would have expected
I'd be jealous
but poetry
is always surprising me.

I have not found
another
I want
nor desire
more than her
but should I ever,
I am allowed
to explore their bodies
as well.
as long as
at the end of the day
she is the one I fall back on.

I have always had a crush on her.
when I was 15,
I tried flirting
but
gave up
when I saw
how others wooed her
so
much
better
than me.
it took time
for me to get enough courage
to try
for her love
again.
she never left me.
she has always been here
waiting,
with open arms
for me
to fold into her embrace
and touch
her *****
making me see
contentment
in her eyes
as they roll
upwards
and she arches her back
in pleasure.

it is
and never will be
better
with anyone else
besides you
babygirl.
you give me a reason to live.
beauty
to this life.
my
wife

The world can't just be an accident,
our Earth is an Elysian field.

The sun is an amulet,
and the miracles were revealed.

Don't sit there hoping for a miracle,
the birds' chirping are almost lyrical.

The sunshine's warmth strokes your cheeks,
and you forget about your worries.

Your mother's sun-kissed cheeks,
and the rain and the flurries.

The adventures in the wild,
the cold river when it's riled.

The alluring creatures,
and all your best features.

So, let go of your hopelessness.
Hold on to your wish.

These sights and wonders will leave you breathless.
Hold on to your wish.

Don't just sit there,
hoping for a miracle.

Now that you're here,
now that's a miracle.

I was built on unstable ground
Shifting sands as I ran towards the ocean
Arms reaching towards the vast and wavering wild
Challenging the waves
Give it all you’ve got you cannot knock me down
I learned to run when I was six years old
My hair manipulated into fussy braids that swung in front of my face
As I paced back and forth in front of the door
with a suitcase full of books
And waited for a taxi that would never come
I was built on burning asphalt and swing sets in sweltering summers
Escaping through eighteen different doors
Only to ride my bike in circles
And climb back under barbed wire fences
After wandering in cow fields and a home with a molding mattress
Where I was told people had *** before I knew what *** was
Returning to four walls to wash off the mud and blood
in glistening tubs and hope
That my mother would ask me where I had been
The neighborhood boys would play football in the eye of a hurricane
While I watched through cracked blinds
It only every rained on one side of the street
But the chalk on our sidewalks always washed away
No matter how many pictures of white picket fences
we etched into the concrete
I was built on not yet not finished not good enough this is not the one
this is temporary
Forests and muddy creeks became guarded iron gates
And I hid behind the pool bar to ash cigarettes
Into a Blue Moon
New marble countertops could not cover up the stench of desperation
And the echoes of gleaming empty halls
The sound of a ticking clock and pounding feet
My parents clinging to sand as it trickled through their grasping fingers
And I build castles with the remains

You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.

"You don't know how lucky you have it,”
I say as I brake for the bird
who is hopping uncertainly
in the middle of the intersection,
torn between flight
and flirting with death
one second longer.

Today it will live.

I press my foot down on the gas pedal.

One day our sun will stop burning-
our universe will freeze, contract, and be reborn;
empires will fall and rise,
but will never see you skin your knees
or fight with your mother;
the wind will never carry away the chalk dust
from your grinning face.

Life persists but bears its scars;
and I see them
in the way we wish on the light of stars
that have been dead for thousands of years;
and I feel them
in the way that fingers trace the stretch marks
that have not yet faded from your mothers stomach.

A still small lump lies in the middle of the barren road,
and I swerve to avoid it

even though the squirrels guts
have already been painted across the gravel

and the baby’s ashes
have already been returned to the cold earth.

The world doesn't stop turning
for either;
but I weep
for both.