Speechless cannot hold
The emotion
I feel essential to express

                                                   My


                   Sensitive



                                                 Eccentric



                      &




                                        Endeared


Cancer man.

                                    You
                              Cannot
                            Even
                        Fathom
                      The
                    Restraint
                  It
                Takes
              To
            Stay
          Speechless

there's a loneliness, a filth carved into my bones, that's hollowing the marrow, replacing it with aches for company
but also there's a longing for solitude and aloneness.
enclosed in barriers made of typed words of authors and candle light flickers
a yearning for skin that isn't my own to share a blanket of whispers and thoughts
to weave baskets out of interlocked fingers.

Why cant I
hold her hand forever?
Why cant I?

If fate is so fierce
I don't know how to hope
What if one night,
it robs my daughter
and steals my sight, the morning after?
What if as ashes I fall
and my aimless quest has to wither?
What if my power to love wanes
and the kindred ability to suffer?

Fate has to answer
Fate can't be,
in itself an answer
For then life
is just a movie yet to buffer

Blame me please,
sentence me please,
for no words shall be sweeter
Gift a few dry words
to the broken man in waters
If my cries are too faint,
I shall gladly cry louder

But please answer,

Why cant I
hold her hand forever?

It's that knotted ball of frustration that lives just behind my sternum
That drives me to do art.
It's like an itch you can't scratch.
It gets excruciating.
And you claw at other things, outside things,
Because you know you can't reach inside your chest and squeeze your heart until it caves in.
It's... sort of like that.
My art is all a release of this maddening...frustration
That I can't get to what I need to really dig out of me
No matter how hard I try.
The tension just builds up and builds up until it's paralyzing,
And then when I can't stand it anymore,
All this creation comes spilling out of me
In a futile
But at least active
Attempt to release whatever's trapped in my soul, rattling the bars.
It never works for long- I never breathe free for more than a second.
But a second
Is better than nothing.
That's why I never have time for anything:
My time needs to be spent
On those seconds.
Getting them,
Repeating them,
Sustaining them.
I need to devote all of my energy to relieving this pressure.
There is no room for anything else.

the pen and the paper are lovers
the pen whispers and the paper remembers
the paper wants to forget

The pen traces the forbidden heart  
the paper and the pen are lovers

there are traces of you all over me - tells the paper to the pen
How do you know what is to love somebody the way I love you?

and I am still working on this ... any suggestions?

Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it

Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but  I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice

Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel

Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same

Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you

Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?

Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.

Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either

Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something

Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.