It's become so hard to write beautiful poems
Because it seems that I only pour my sadness out when I write
And I have absolutely no reason for sadness
Therefore I just leave my pen on my desk,
I don't ever pick it up anymore ;
Because I now know joy and everything that goes with it
Now I only listen to swinging songs
And I just dance to them all night long,
Now I only watch decent films and not depressing ones,
Even my psychologist says I've overcome my depression
But now I can't write anymore..
I've forgotten what beauty sounds like
When I try to put my happiness down on paper
I can't even do it properly

I'm used to writing about death
And tears, lost love and broken hearts
Now all my sadness' gone
And I wish I could write about her smile
But my poem would be too joyful, and that is just not me.

Behold.
The cup is full my love.
My ribs are now held close.
With silk so tender and nameless.
And your lips newly plumped.
Your skin perfect finally.
Pore less.

Take these paper memories, these fragile moons, break them for our bed.
Our perfect rest. A final mistake. 
Fear for the future. The past is not to come. 

Forever leathered throats and close knit bones. 
Drink tonight. 
It is only a carton away. 
The death of your insecurities. 

You drive by and smell the rot. 
By the creek, the timbers never cured. 

Forget the trees lining your sunset. 
Drink. Allow your beach to rise as you fall. 
Refresh again. 

Someone else. 
Peel away the layers and remove your face from this haunting. 
Step outside into the night's cold brilliance. 

Scream. 
Allow yourself to wake. And pretend for a pence that this is it. This is light. 
With your back against the ceiling. 
And again my eternity, with your back against the quilt. 
Sweat and tremble, awake in you what stayed weak. 

Control emotion in the room, wait for the paint to dry. 
A cold abyss grown darker with these moments at work. 
These hollows of warmth. 

I'm directing this and you are arriving with sickness. 
Just a puzzle eternal now. 
A walk on the beach chasing sand. 
Waiting for dust. 

Scream.

Drink like Kerouac,
Smoke like Bukowski.
Wait...
is that backwards?

I am the flightless pelican.
I’ve found myself with my mouth full,
my stomach full, and so much still on my plate.
Possessed by an inhuman hunger,
I will gorge upon pure potential.
I will yowl on and on, without sleep.
-
I have sand between my toes.
My shoes are glued to my feet.
Keep on running ‘til the calluses come.
There has to be a point where I stop to sweat,
and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief.
I have one ride left on my bus pass.
-
I have a tendency to ramble
and languish in my own stench.
People tend to forget this at first;
lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke.
They want to know the impression I left,
not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat.
-
I can’t sleep being held,
or if I feel someone’s breath in the still.
I start to feel the urge to burrow
into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land.
I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves,
but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion.
-
I have cousins like brothers,
and I have brothers like strangers.
Stray cats with names
and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in.
I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water;
avoiding conflict with no bait.  
-
Paper cuts from the gold leaf
on the edges of hymn book pages
with burgundy leather covers.
These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours,
while we steadily forget that anyone was singing.
Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.