can poetry be too clinical
too clipped
bare bones of something else

scattered, now
and bleached in the Sun
all poems come here to die.

precious the lips of poets
they kiss the Sun
and lament for eternity

lost love
love that never was
love that could have been.

as the Nightingale sings
so a poets silence
as deep as the black Universe reigns.

Even though my syllables ballerina
may falter, my metaphor's never
                                                  falter.

I balance my wording between
the lines of reality and
                                   fantasies realm.

Dancing upon the imagery of
others thoughts and lives.
                           Living their words.

I'm a ballerina of imagery, feeding
there visual needing, I dance upon
                           their needing of word

I hear
Your heart
Beat like
Waves crashing
In a
Sea shell

I watch
You break
Like the
Sea tide

I don't really want to fall
In love
I just want to feel like dancing
And smile for no reason

I don't really want to fall
In love
I just a daily hug
And to feel loved