Why do books smell so good?
I know, I know the chemical truth
But ever wonder if its because the planet approves?
what if mother earth agrees with the use
cut my child down but write wonderful prose
dream a million things and use the pages to be verbose
explain something carefully, like mother nature would
if she could speak, and now she does, through books

I was lost, afloat but adrift
I was trapped, with wings but clipped
I was asleep, stuck in a looping dream
I was gasping, though I knew how to breathe.

Then you shone a light, so I could see within
The fog vanished, and the curtains parted
I was repulsed, aghast, ashamed
But you never judged, just asked questions

Questions that needed answers
Questions that I had never asked
Questions that the world had forgotten to pose
Questions that I still struggle to grasp

What you mean to me, is the hardest question to answer
Soulmate, my one and only, my other half
These are just words, they are but bluster
My love is endless, my soul is now attached

It is a kite that has found a string, and now flies with the wind
A moon that swims the sky, scratched and pockmarked, yet dancing
A river that knows its mark, the sea, the abyss, the void
yet it tumbles and turns, meanders and churns

I gather the dust, I reflect the stars
I look further and further, within and without
I have no fear, of the dark unknown
I am touched by an angel, and she guides me home

Coming apart at the seams, troubled even in my dreams
Losing my mind to thrills, cheap or otherwise
I want to make myself scream, sadly, no words are to be seen
But maybe I will cackle, make a scene
Amused at my past selves' hubris, wondering
which way bends the stream

I miss you immensely
your lack, is a coldness that makes
my skin lonely, it begs to be
touched, to feel warm again

But i'm not cold, i'm just bored
of the normies, they aren't like you
don't excite me, or delight me
their ideas are old, decrepit, stale
and they're stuck chasing tails

I know you share my wonder
the thrill of finding what's under
the intricate tapestry of life's majesty
the universe undone, knot by single knot
How boring are those,
who do not wonder
whose minds no more sing, and chase things

Only you know, what I mean
when I stare into the void,
and know not
if its without, or within

In a world of lies, with the realities of life, safely ignored
I swipe my screen, and wring my hands, saying I'm bored.
I sip my tea, blissfully aware of the common man's plight
I tell myself, it's not my fault, it's alright.

I write my blogs, I rate my world and give it a C-
As I dive right in to the cess pool of the world's finest
My mind addled with an addiction to 'things'
As the rich men slyly pull on my strings

The child within, utters a plaintive cry
Long dead his thirst, and clipped his wings
I have to get to work, and work to get by
I don't want to know, what I lost, when I gained these things.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.