I love him.
But secretly I adore you.

We are different.
But you and me are parallels.

He is complex
But you just understand.

He is all style
But you are substance.

He is all facts
But you are creative.

I don't know what do to.
But I know I'm lying.

my mother might have cancer
now, before i get all dramatic on you and fire shots of poetry
let me remind you of the keyword you should hold close to your heart
might.

might is scary
might makes you reflect on everything you've done in your life that
might
have affected the second most important word in that sentence
mother.
the one that comes to mind after you got done thinking about yourself and about
how this might affect your life
pause
little girl i don't think you quite understand the value of family
i'm not a little girl
anymore
you have no excuse
i have been carefully nurtured like that delicate plant you tried to grow in a miniature *** in the third grade
the nurturing that came from might
the strength of her
she poured out into you
your water
you grew
only to look back at you
i understand i can be selfish
but i'm hoping this scare won't be the only reason i truly question it enough to change
with time
in time

i never understood my mother until last year
she grows with me
discovering herself
as i discover myself in her
my mother chose to be in an arranged marriage
she chose happiness
she was convinced of a humble man
a caring man
a devote, dedicated man
but he was having an affair
her name was popov
she wore a red dress everyday

I've no idea why I write so much
As I have never had a way with words.

And I don't know why I fight so much
When I am genuinely apathetic toward the outcome of most arguments.

I think I get bored.

Maybe I just--

I like to make things dificult.
I like the combination of puzzle and pain.
It gives me something to fill my little brain.
Purpose.
A reason to be awake.

It's like a game.
But not the kind that children play.

More like a contest.
Who can destroy themselves the fastest?
Except the only prize is self denial and
If  you are lucky--
A bit of Jack to wash away the lonliness.  

A miserable existence, I know.
I live it,
Because I still have this ridiculous hope

That the empty chair in the kitchen will
Save me from myself.

I'm a senseless,
Rambling,
Fool.

When I look at you,
all of my
logic
common sense
appropriateness
seems to evaporate
as my primitive brain
takes the wheel

We won't take our clothes off
We will tear them off.
Rip them off
Ravage them
Destroy them
We will brutally punish the fabric
for getting in the way of our sins,
it will fall tattered to the floor
as we don new clothing
made of our sweat and fingers

Our lips will find one another
then they'll find our necks
then our chests
then our stomaches
then....we'll see
We'll draw maps of our bodies with our fingers
and then we'll explore them with our tongues.
Nothing is sacred
Nothing is off limits

I want to make you feel ecstacy
I want your legs wrapped around me
I want your fingernails digging into my back
Leave scars, I insist.
Our bodies will press together
cause fusion
cause confusion
I don't want to know
what is mine
and what is yours
I want to be
so hopelessly
lost in you
and you in me
that we might never find our way back
Why would we ever go back?

As the rhythm becomes more staggered
I want to be looking into your eyes
We're seeing stars and we're relishing
every single tiny little moment
every feeling
every fleeting sensation
until we collapse into
eachother's arms
too tired to move
swimming in a
river of passion

You still smell delicious.
I want you again.

Did you know Ninjas have a language
That we can't understand?
While it isn't terribly complicated
it can be tough to comprehend

I happen to be fluent
I've studied for some time
Below I've crafted a poem
using Ninjutsu as my rhyme














































I can only hope you found
my poem to be delighting
there are few things I enjoy
quite more than ninja writing

He shakes the snow from his fur and tastes the air

A young boy leans against an oak
A rusted sword at his side


The wolf leaves the warmth of his den

(They listened to the old man around the fire
His words hang in the air...)

The wolf bares his yellow teeth

The boy would lie beneath the stars
Imagining the tales
Heracles wounding even the gods

The metallic lure of blood. Skades' perfume was heavy on the morning fog

He slept and drempt
He was in the vale again
Leaning against the old oak
His father's words were harsh-
Only a coward would run from such a glorious death


The hunger was, unbearable now
The wind pulled at his hair




In the cold early morning fog
The spear was heavy, but he was strong
The sword was rusted, but he had cunning



They were alone in the valley
Where the morning fog will never lift

I left the seat
in the front row
of the place
with too many lights
for it to have been
that dim
dripping in music from head to toe,
from hip to soul,
listening to my ears and their lobes
ramble on incantations of unknown songs,
enchanting nuances strung throughout their chatter
like puddles strewn across concrete,
like grey matter,
like static
but much more in tune with nature
and far less understandable,
weaving my thoughts through new-found looms
stitching patterns of fumes,
gasses,
smoke and the solemn ashes
of melodies burned alive
under a nearly full moon,
under skies that humm
with the clanging arrival
of moments to be counted,
marked,
measured,
treasured for their value
though it elude all reason
because seasons do not lie
except for early spring evenings
when the lights are fading
and the music you heard playing
is quick to
leave your tongue.
It was all said and done.

One more highway home

among the trees and stargazers,

convincing my eyes

of what my ears have undone.