poetry is fine for thoughtful people,
thinkers, readers and the like;
such emotions are the trigger,
for thunder and the lightning strike.

lost love, depression and elation,
the many moods are spread like ink;
the catharsis we need to go on living,
changing as we rise and sink.

we put in words our discontent,
or the regal high of happiness;
we stumble over bits of phrases,
and sometimes make a mess.

But we're  survivors of the last word,
and we write on with wicked verse;
and if it isn't to our liking,
then we'll howl and probably curse.

Yet in the end we come out stronger,
content with just to have a voice;
all we've to blame is our ourselves,
for we're the ones that made the choice.

Ten.

I love you.
We fit so well together
And you are the lost puzzle piece
That I didn't know was missing.
We are effortless
And beautiful
Because you love me, too
And every time you say it
The words fall into my mouth
And I savor the taste
And the way they rattle behind my lips.

Nine.

We bicker sometimes.
You don't like the pasta I make
And I don't like how late you work.
But you whisper sweet nothings to me
While I clean the dishes.
Then you pull me against you
In our room
When the dishes are done
And I liquefy
Like ice in hot coffee.
And we'll be okay.

Eight.

I stayed up for you.
You didn't come home
At five like you always do.
There's food in the fridge
And my trust in the doorstep
Where you wipe your shoes
At two a.m.
You go to bed.
I follow behind
Not asking questions,
Not wanting to know.

Seven.

I haven't talked about it.
You haven't talked about it.
We don't talk anymore.

Six.

Where do you go? I say.
What do you mean? You say.
When you're not here.
Work, you say.
I know that's not it, I say. Please don't lie to me anymore.
But you tell me you don't want to talk about it.
You storm off to bed
And I melt against
The cold linoleum
Like I once did
In your arms.

Five.

I haven't looked in your eyes
Since that night
When the dusty kitchen floor
Held me closer
Than you have in months.
My tears did nothing
To wash away the fear
That the liqueur didn't.

Four.

I ask if it's another man.
You don't reply at first
And then deny.
But I know.
I've known.
I ask who it is.
Can you at least tell me that? I say.
Your silence fills the room
Like a cup overflowing
With water
Or something murkier.
You say it so quietly,
A woman from work,
And I nod,
Blinking through the salty licks of tears.
How could I possibly have any left?
You don't say you're sorry.

Three.

You pack up your things.
She comes by to pick them up.
You look right through me and say  you've fallen in love.
I say nothing
Because I haven't yet fallen out of it.

Two.

My bed is cold.
My mornings are quiet.
I'm no longer cooking for two.
There is no one to come home to
Or to come home to me.
I sit alone by the window
Not even
One with the stars.
I feel hollow.

One.

I see you
Around town sometimes.
With her
And a red-faced baby boy
Who looks just like you do.
I love you.
And I don't think I'll ever stop.

Zero.

A word
Nobody knows.
It's a mental thing.
"A sensation produced in one modality when a stimulus is applied to another modality, as when the hearing of a certain sound induces the visualization of a certain color."
A confusion of senses.
But I don't think I am confused.
I just see farther than anyone.
For me;
I see colors
And think sounds, tastes, textures.
I see objects
And think gender, personality, music.
All the letters
Have colors, smells, jobs in an office.
All the numbers
Have heights, voices, fashion senses.
I don't know why it is
But it is a malfunction in my brain.
I don't know how to explain it
But it is not very complicated.
Everything has a color
A personality
A food
A texture
A sound
A taste
A smell
Associated with it.
Because everything is deeper than they look.
Because I am confused?
Because I can see.

This poem isn't about love,
Or sadness,
Or really anything else.
It doesn't have structure
Or really any deep, philosophical meaning.

It is about sleep
And how hard it is.
At first it is slow
And then very quick.
If you feel yourself drifting
You're doing it wrong.

You can't pinpoint when you actually lose consciousness
Or when you wake up.
You can't remember
The beginning of a good dream
Or the end of a bad one.
Isn't that weird?

If you want to stay awake you fall asleep
And if you try to fall asleep you stay awake.

There is no method for falling asleep
And no talent for it.

Isn't that weird?

Weird.

That thing between my legs.
Folded nicely.
An envelope.
A door.
That thing sealed my future
But it isn't me.
I look down and see nothing,
Feel nothing,
Want more.
That cave took from me
All I ever was;
Ever wanted.
Now I have to find it on my own,
Pay for it,
Take skin from my leg for it.
But that thing,
That concave mountain
Of my set role in this society
Can't take any more.
That thing.
I won't let it.

He writes boy on his leg
Etching the letters the world won't understand
Wishing the felt tip pen could
Break the gravestones on his chest
And fill the valley between his legs

He writes boy on his leg
It's a word kept secret in fear
He's a mustang learning his legs
And the world is a pack of vicious wolves
They don't know what to call him
Only he does

He writes boy on his leg
Takes a picture and sends it to the one he knows understands
The flash against his pale skin stark and bright
Like sleepy eyes against fresh snow

He writes boy on his skin
Because he can't write it anywhere else