I vow to compose

the greatest haiku when I

have aged wise and true

What am I feeling

in this moment to share with

the masses who care?

What is this hold upon me?
It constricts and stifles every thought that appears,
with a chloroform rag drenched in discontent
Mild perfectionism, if such a thing, and procrastination leave me
frequently wondering where the time went

The questions I ask myself repeatedly
never receive answers with credibility
A rhythm with no rhyme; a melody in offset time
A misty meaning behind glossy eyes
that I’ve tied together with endless lines
of verbose attempts to explain my mind

No feeling is palpable, no imagery fabricated
Only an idea of what could be,
of what I cannot grasp,
and what I cannot convey

So I’m left with this clouded mind
jostled by ambivalence
(this word ceases to elude me)
on a maladjusted playground,
teetering and tottering on the fine edge
of sanity in this bleak reality

Celebrate your birth

regardless of year; thank the

Universe for Earth

Death is among us

it breathes and lingers,

capturing the unexpected

with its alluring fingers

It's so overwhelming

knowing each breath could be your last

The things that get you

are the things from your past

Some don't deserve it,

some crave its touch

Some have decided

that they'd like it very much

To see the light,

to see the dark

To see the one

that bares the mark

Something more powerful

is out there for sure

Everything happens for a reason

I have to concur

Death is among us,

taking the selected

But to take Ethan Khan,

that was just unexpected

Cupid, infect me

***** me; saturate me with

Infatuation

all showered and shaved,
gussied and primped,
with no one to touch
hence a lonely night spent
tapping away on plastic keys
to people near and far over seas,
who mimic my movements
directly through the screen
typing away, writing obscene
poetry and fiction
with articulate diction
of tales of titillating touches
by our celebrity crushes,
for our realistic lives
are in a lasting drought,
therefore fervent encounters are without
but the passion that burns
lies in our lust-less yearn
to be held, touched, and stimulated,
sensually caressed and dominated
depictions of kink send sparks
to particularly my lady parts
and the desire for one's touch
becomes almost too much,
so I channel these feelings
that leave my nerves reeling,
and loneliness settles in
before I can even begin
to describe the touch
of which I cannot feel
and wish the instances
I fabricate with words
could only be real