I’ve left footprints
in deserts
where no man’s been
in millennia; a thirst
not yet quenched
these dry cracked lips
can still spit out a poem
on old buzzards’
bones, trekking alone
whistling Dixie, my brother
I’ve a few miles yet to go.

We are as unconditionally loved as much as the one loving us has the capacity to unconditionally love themselves

When it comes to you
I am at a loss for words
so my heart beats in symphonies
my mind will never compose

I have lived
life
perceiving
I am
the measly
leftovers
unworthy and stale
soiling
a perfectly good plate
rejected with disdain
and disgust
                        Until I had the courage
                        to dine alone
Now I gleam
at the absurdity
and the filthy
rotten
Domestic waste
they so intrinsically
continue to fabricate
for themselves
as I feast on the
nourishment
of my
authenticity