I would give anything to make you coffee.
To hold your gaze in the blissful, morning silence.
I would pet your mind, discreetly.

I would give anything to be the fly on your wall.
To just attain your advances.
To see your smile.
To harvest the scent of your hair.
I would let you love me.
I would provide you the promises that I once could not.

...just another morning rant.

Near 90 degrees outside today.
I did go out there once, maybe twice.

I'm wearing a sweatshirt (with the hood up)
and some basketball shorts
('cause it is near 90 degrees out today).

Lingering stares and strange faces
burn holes in the side of it.

"Whats with the hoodie?" she said.
I grinned the utmost, forged,
forced pirate-smile, i had faked,
in the longest of long whiles.

I pivoted to hide my tears.

"Its nearly 90 degrees outside,"
she is saying.
...little does she know...
inside this hood-
its raining.

have you ever tried to drown in your own bathtub?
it doesn't really work.
unless yours is around five feet deep (or more),
it probably didn't work for you either.
sadly mine is standard.
maybe a foot and a half of water-
at the most.
and when i laid down to drown,
the water barely covered my face.
blasphemy!
maybe i should try face down,
then in my very own tub-
i might actually be able to drown.

Now that the blanket is
lifted from my head,
I am gifted
With the gift
Of my own breath.

It is not love
You and her, that is not love.
                            (you and I were)
She doesn't know anything
(she wouldn't know if you've died)
about you.

You still come to me -
I don't care if you won't admit it.
I will.

You and her, that is not,
It is not,
(it never will be)
love.

(And shoot me if it is.)

Still the shallow breath
Perceive a path without edge
And then make thy leap

Poems come and steal my soul
and leave me here to bleed
Never wounding fatally
just taking what they need
An ounce or two of passion
a pound or two of pain
leaving me alone to heal
before harvesting again
Sometimes they give more than they take
with rhymes of which I'm proud
Other times my cries are lost
amidst the madding crowd
Yet my tale is not a sad one
for there is pleasure in this pain
why else would I keep writing
inviting them again?