Vacancy?
that would be the hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
I feel empty,
a  ten gallon hat sat on the head of a pin, but I can't get out so I slip right in,
the baptist says my sins are absolved and I dissolve once again to be reborn just the same,this never ending rigmarole is manna for the mortal soul,I'm either going mad or it's me here bleeding,death bound on a slab.

I thought I had found what I knew I had lost in the package that came but all that it cost me,post paid was the vacancy,unwrapped I am empty and the light burns on low.

Show me  the man and I'll show you what I cannot do,can't fit through,don't feel right,won't fit in and the light's still burn low.

The baptist said,'go forth and multiply'
Why,
what good would it do when you don't even know who you are and any offspring to spring wouldn't know anything,why bother at all,

Wear celibacy like a caul and it strangles you,it takes the breath from you,it'll be the death of you and you'll end up like me.
The vacancy.

I wanted to do it,
she knew it,
I saw by the smile that she gave me,lord save me from sin,
but I just had to knock and she just let me in.
And she wanted to,too,
I knew.
it went on this way, through the night and next day,full of shame lest she blame me for taking advantage,
I gave her my number,she gave me her name,not what I expected,not quite the same as two ships that pass,in the nights when no questions are asked and the heat of the thrill is all that will keep us in answers until the day makes its way through the smouldering kisses and the lingering perfumes of untidy bedrooms.

Sometimes
with the battering ram of the be all I can,I can be so much more than the click of a latch on one more unknown door,one more fated conquest ,one more test of the man,is he all that he can be,is there more there to see, than the fumbling numbings of those ****** comings and goings.

Sometimes
With the stars in my eyes and her sighs on my mind I can find that perfection,a precise intersection where two lives are crossed and nothing is lost but the moments we waste.

How it was then and how it is now, is no longer a question to which there's no answer,she answers me all ways and always she questions,she leans on my answers,I lean on her shoulder
and we get older.

We all have a past,
We all hide it well;
We all forget that
We all hurt inside.

Bed sheets impregnated with her essence.
Towels dripping the sweetness of her skin.
Wild thoughts invading my subtle thinking.
Her scent still lingering in my senses and my soul.

A fleeting heartbeat was skipped the moment our eyes met.
All reality vanished as distance disappeared.
Poetry struck me as I chose my words carefully.
A smile was virtously drawn on her face when I held her hand.

The world conspired for us to meet then.
Not before. Not after.
Just at the right moment.
We pushed fate away as it pulled us back to its path.
We lost ourselves in each other in just the blink of an eye.

A voice so heavenly angels should be jealous.
A mind so priviledged she understands me whole.
Her eyes so pure and lively even diamonds are just stones.
Her sweet embrace so warm she could reignite the sun.

Love has been reinvented, and now it wears her name.
Beautiful turns ugly whenever she's around.
If perfection's bound to gods, then she must be a goddess,
and I'd worship only her for her blessings are all mine.

My sadness
Is a late summer storm.

A few days of sun,
But I knew it was brewing.
Anticipation, trepidation,
Gathering resolve.

It thunders over me
When I least expect it.
There's a sudden build up
Then release.

Afterwards
I feel renewed
for a while.

Only for a while.

I can still hear the thunder, in the distance
And I know it will return,
Heavier, and darker than before.

most of us aren't in love
we're in lust
or like
or crushing or swooning or "in the honeymoon stage"
we're infatuated, "in love with the idea of love"
...lonely...
it seems silly really
that love, true love, real love
the kind that isn't a feeling in the morning that changes with your mood
is so rare, almost unattainable
like the infinitesimally small atom resting at the very tip of a needle
but we still hope
us non-lovers i mean. we strive
like gatsby for that green light we want to be (in) love(d)

we go about it different ways-- through crushes and infatuations and "s(he)'s hot" 's
but all us non-lovers
we're trying to love

when people ask me 'what type of poetry do you like?'
i tell them that i like real poetry
not fake meaningless poetry with technical words that i don't even know.
i tell them poetry has to have EMOTION
and it doesn't have to make sense.
it doesn't have to rhyme, either.
poetry should be raw. it should be written when you don't think you have anything to write about
like that time you were lying in bed and thought of a single word planted onto paper to create a whole stanza, and then five stanzas.
find poetry in music. in the low guitar riffs and the drum beat. find it in the lyrics and the vocals. find words in trees. in lights. in a bottle of nail polish. in your first love and your last laugh.
find poetry when you fall and a stranger helps you up. find it in a busker at the train station. find it when you give that busker some money and find it when you see that the busker appreciates you. find poetry in poetry.