If I was a work of art I'd be a poem
but just a blank white sheet of generic notebook paper
and you would be a symphony
which sounds pretty beautiful
but I never really liked Bach and
I never really liked Beethoven and
I never really liked Mozart and
I never really liked
myself

but
ohmygoddidIlikeyou
like Da Vinci liked Mona and
Dali liked

l
o
  n
   g

d r i p    i n g
          p
brush strokes depicting surrealist scenes and
Picasso liked Cubism and
Van Gogh liked his own ******* sadness and a tub of sunflower-yellow paint and that girl
he sent his neatly packaged and not-so-neatly severed off ear to

though
I suppose
artists are supposed to hate their art
with a burning self-depreciation sort of self-determination or
at least that's what I got from
Plant and Lydon and Cobain and
every other shooting star rock-and-roll phenomenon with their name engraved on a plaque somewhere
and a drug problem that procured a thousand cigarettes now just as burnt out as they are

but here's the thing
you aren't my art
you
are a breathing
walking
talking
self-portrait that sputters to life every morning
with an accent on each note

like I said
if we were art
you would be a symphony
but the orchestra
is crescondo-ing to no end now and
quite frankly I am tired of all these high-pitched violin marcatos and
I am losing myself in the repeats and
I am just wondering when the fine will come

like I said
if we were art
I would be a poem
that was just an empty piece of drab old paper
much too conventional and clean and
empty
to be appreciated
but
I guess a beginning in the form of an empty sheet of paper is all
Poe and Frost and Plath and
Auden and Silverstein and Dickinson and
Shakespeare and Bukowski and Cummings
had in common
anyway.

Don't ask me what it is like to love someone
I have thrown the word love away
Like they do colorful beads at Mardi Gras
Abundant and beautiful
Yet no one throws them back
Don't ask me what it is like to love someone
I have waited by too many telephones
I have kissed too many of the wrong people
Hoping to find one who's lips might taste like his
Like craving something you're allergic to
Yet still giving into the temptation of eating it an suffering anyways
Do not ask me what it is like to love someone
Because I have not experienced real love
Real love is when it is returned
Having the one who's eyes look like the sunrise
The one who's walk makes you want to follow behind them
The one who had a smile that can reignite a fireplace
Having the one who makes your heart melt like ice cream on a summer day love you as much as you love them or even more
That is real love
And I am not familiar with something so precious
Because the one who stimulates my well-being is too busy
Following someone else, someone who is nothing like me
And yet still I wonder if he is taste testing too

The whistling wind
Speaks in a nurturing voice
To stop the silence

Happiness goes the distance
It forms to you individually
You need to break it in
Or it can end up hurting you
Happiness comes in many different shapes
Colors
And sizes
It gets taken for granted by some
And praised for by others


Happiness. Is a shoe.

Does it make you sad that when you blow
You push everything away from you?
Or does it make you frustrated that you don't know why you keep doing it.
You get angry and howl, you don't know your own strength
And you blow down trees.
But people don't see that you can be gentile
And guide kites through the extensive window to the heavens.
You can be a jolly old man whistling in the park
Playing with the birds
Or
You can do everything
Because you're everywhere.

Dear alarm clock,
We need to talk
There needs to be an intermission
Between used and the user.
For you're the first thing I hear in the morning,
Sometimes before the rooster has even awoken
BUT,
Your obnoxious tone, that pierces the serenity
makes me remember all the mornings you tricked me into thinking I had 5 more minutes.
You s l o w down
When I stare at you
And you speed up on the moment my glazed and zombified glare ends.
You abruptly ruin my my slumber, are you crying for attention? Is there something wrong?
But the reason I'm here
Is to
Apologize..
I've ignored
Your patient plastic all day till I need you most,
And your metal arms ask nothing of it.
I guess our friendship can have its ups and downs
As long as
You're here for me tomorrow.