I have some followers who have never posted a poem
Perhaps they're just people who enjoy reading poetry
But maybe they are just nervous about showing their work
Anyway here's how I view it
An artist makes a charcoal or pencil sketch
Once it looks right they start adding color
A photographer frames the subject and once its right
Takes the photograph
So start by writing a short stanza and then play with the words
You just might surprise yourselves

Be the Mood
you'd like those around you to feel.

Any thing
that keeps One
from practicing
at least an hour a day
is a hindrance
to One's Art.

If it is a person,
they disrespect One's
divine creative spark.

If it is internal to the mind,
it is self-discipline and patience
that are lacking.

If it is external to the mind,
it is perseverance and determination
that are lacking.

Art is struggle;
both against One's Self and One's environment,
physically, socially and emotionally.

Art is a path, a veritable way of life,
lost on the weak of heart
lost on the uninspired
lost on the masses.

but hell, it isn’t going to work out
and i’m not what you need
i’m far away, and full of dirt and bugs
but i want you
we’ll **** other people
and maybe even have fun
from time to time
but i think about your smile
and it’s stupid
but i curl up inside of it at night
pull my covers over my head
and dream bitterly about
of a life without such
distance

She said people were seasons,
and when I first met her, I couldn't agree more.  
After getting to know her, I wished that I didn't.
Her ex-lovers were Winter, and her eyes were a shade of Spring.
I could see the vulnerability of a car crash
swimming in each fountain trapped behind her emeralds.
She was beautiful in the way that could cause suicides,
and fix spider-webbed windshields after each collision of,
“Are you okay,” and, “I’m fine; I promise.”

Every story was Winter, and she was always left alone in the snow.
Mauve lips mouthed words that silently whispered,
"When is this too much? When are you going to leave?"

People are patterns,
and all she knew was the tessellation of temporary love and permanent loss.
Her hands trembled as she looked down.
She was in transit; moving after each hope of home fell apart.
And I wanted to kiss her like the world was falling apart.

You pull on my lip like an aircraft emergency oxygen system.
Our engines catch fire
as our tongues flutter like the wing's peeling metal,
and as our eyes peek at one another
between each plane crash of lips.

We've lost cabin pressure
as we can no longer control our bodies.
We gasp for each other's breath
as our shimmering structures
roll around on the sky of my bed.

We kiss like we've only got seconds left,
when in reality,
these moments will never die
even if we do.