The old wives
from the mountains
used to tale us  ;)
that if you tell a lie
when it’s lightning
you’ll wake up
at midnight
spitting blood
which makes me
think I must’ve been
talking in my sleep
last night when
the storm blew through
loud enough to
shake the house
and wake the dead
so I woke up to
smoke a cigarette
and let my dog go
outside to take a ****
when I saw a rose
pretty as you please
there on my pillow
I swear, I think I dreamed
that I was the President. ;)

recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.