They shout, applaud and clap
When my poetry I express aloud
But the minute that my back is turned
They speak words of hate and scorn
Oh fickle friends with hearts and minds so split
Do thee not feel a tinge of guilt
Can you not have an honest word
Speak the truth about noun and verb
So word the honesty in your thought
The verbal ******* counts for nought
Just let the poets write

It's amazing,
the way I was drawn to him
because he looked
like summer at a time
I craved only the hollowness
of winter.
It's amazing
that his love
compensated for my
self hate,
and that he was able to make me forget
who I was.
The simplicity in
holding hands captivated me and
I forgot that I was addicted to speed. Everything about the way
he let me love him was slow and innocent.
He fixed me.
He sewed up my
spine, expanded my
stomach,
and thawed my
lungs with his
warm breath.
The scars faded,
but it was amazingly easy
for him to change his mind: rip out the stitches
leaving them to
bleed, open to
infection,
and wanting
anything that could stop
the pain.
****** in the back seat
of some guy's car,
lines off an unknown
man's kitchen counter,
smoke in my
parents house
with the window
open so I could
pretend they didn't know,
cuts
up my legs.
Anything
to forget that someone could be
so
**** cruel,
anything to forget that someone could be
so
happy. Lost
in the tears that run
with the water
in the shower
twice a day, lost
in my mind that cannot
escape
itself
no matter how
intoxicated...
No matter how
exhausted, was my sanity. Everything has
escaped,
he still looks like summer,
I finally found the hollowness
of winter.
It's amazing how
it happened:
it started; it ended.
Eventually,
one of us will die
And
the other will regret that it didn't
last.
It will be amazing
the way one of us
feels again in those first few moments
after the other is
gone. If
I last, will i watch the
flashes
of our lives and
feel again
the ignorant perfection of our
love or the
pain of removing the
stitches?

How can I still breathe?
How do I still walk?

I go home

Grab Mom's knife

Slit

Crying, I hide the remains of my mangled wrist

Days go by like nobody cares
Nobody talks
Nobody loves

My Mom is home

An audience

As I grab the knife, she screams
All breathing stops
I lay on the floor

My Mom picks up the phone

The blood is draining
My life is fading

As moments go by

The radio plays

"All You Need is Love"

For fifteen years it served me well
through rain and wind and snow
But I decided that it was the time
and the poor thing had to go
I think of all the miles done
in its company
Fishing trips
and foreign trips
and holidays at home
But it had reached its sell by date
its usefulness expired
So I threw it in my fire pit
onto the funeral pyre

Thus I bid my old hat a last farewell

Collages drip unto the new canvas making art.
Where passion and desire become one within perfection.
Strokes of paint that cannot be undone.
Watch the sun fall off of my page.

Do move a inch, stay in place for  while.
I need to blend your colors well.
The ocean likes your color too
Your reflection ripples on her waves.

Light and dark and in-between.
The blood of the sun mixed with the fading blue.
Clouds mop up the residue,
All I can think of is fire and hell.

Low you are going now.
Disappear under the night.
My canvas awaits your return.
My canvas awaits your return.

If I were a tree,
I'd be a good tree.

I'm sitting outside my tent in a meadow verdant green
Just sitting, listening, dreaming
Surrounded by stately trees Sillouted
against an azure blue sky
Tall hedgerows filled with blossom
White, like drifts of new fallen snow
That's why I'm just sitting, listening,  dreaming
The storm we had an hour ago long passed by
Now I sit and watch white wispy clouds floating there on high
Why am I sitting,  listening, dreaming
Do you really need to ask?
If I truly believed in God then I've found heaven here on earth
I've no TV or radio but music fills the air
Leaves rustling in the gentle breeze and bird song near and far
And so I'm just sitting,  listening, dreaming