It is absolutely breath-taking..
how each of his exquisite poems sing..
a distinctive melody,
how his mind works like magic...
sculpting the most incredible forms no one could.
Brilliance just shines through his woven pieces...
no words could really define how awe-inspiring his work is.
His meticulous sublime words...
uniquely create ingenious and flawless stanzas,
making each and every one of his craft...
out of this universe.
That is truly..
how gifted he is.
Her once Cobalt blue eyes so full of life
have faded to a empty cold grey stare
eyes that now look straight through me
as I wonder
does she see life's color anymore,
or is the world upon which she looks at
in black and white?
Are we just shadows making intermittent sounds,
scrambled memories out of sync
like a radio trying to catch a frequency
just out of reach?
I'll sit and hope that you hear my words as I tell you
of the bright yellow butter cups that sit in your window
and of the busy bee that drinks their sweet nectar
And of the children playing in the school yard across the way
Screams of laughter as boys chase girls
trying to steal a kiss
all basking in the Sun's glorious rays In a warm summer's breeze
I'll keep trying to reach you in the hope that you will find that frequency
if only for a second
just to see the world in colour
One last time
Fingers sinking deep
below your surface;
seeping into your loins,
caressing your crevices.
leaving their mark; baring pleasure.
coursing ecstasy through your veins.
searching for the highest of peeks beyond measure
scorching heat, blood boiling, the pleasure pains
soothing your aching flesh
in relentless pursuit; of higher depths
guilty yearnings, urges run rampant
as your ecstasy starts to progress
heavy breathing your hands held abreast
pungent liquids; drenched with desire
a seeping puddle stains the mattress
gingerly leaking, outlining your canvas
a mist in the air, cooling your skin;
a weight of gold
upon my heart,
its heavy dull luster
pushes down hard
in the brush,
the next step in
a dense rock
in my blood
the boiling point
of spilling over
my inner tigress
about to unfurl
snow, the silent
She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot
She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before
She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play
She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain
She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should
She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill
But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave
To my friends
who can write
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
or forcing their way
to light around
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
I stood in the February snow
the freezing sleet
Steam wafting off my fury
My father read the lie
two hundred yards away
and walking toward me
So I owned it
With a snarl
Without a flinch
I held my ground before him
and wore the red of his hand
on my face for a week