thank god i can’t write good poetry
the best poetry comes from pain and hurt if you ask me
so although i can’t write like i used to
at least it means i’m doing alright

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin

I stabbed myself in the heart
and asked you to watch me bleed
but that proved too hard
So your eyes averted
And I was left staring at
Your retreating figure
And I bled out alone

I am a poet, I write a life
I am a writer, I live...

This is life's main point-
dis-appointment.

Rough weather at sea
  fishermen's boats rock and shake
  wives look through windows