And he said
"I keep having dreams of the same girl. She's always far off in the darkest corner of the room. Her skin is always covered in black paint and her mouth opens to talk about bitter truth and she would laugh at her own dark humour. I often try to coax her to talk to me but sometimes she would look at me with a frown, like she's analysing me. Sometimes she would sing to lamented ballads which causes my chest to hurt. I wonder what she went through. Where I walk, I'm surrounded by light. So when I'm within her axis, her painted skin clears up and she would smile genuinely more. With each dream, we would get closer but here's the thing; whenever we get too close, I wake up."

-m.b

Lick my lips
Cradle my face
Gaze into my eyes
And tell me I'm safe

Once he told me
"loving you is like breathing
how can i stop?"

and now hes holding his breath.

A naked tree in winter
my bones are always bare
I reach inside this
tree crown ribcage
pull my insides out
and press them on this page
I make a lovely composition
of red and superstition
I don't care
about how ***** it gets
I dare
you
Let me share
with you
You can do no wrong
Watch me
as I pretend it's been you
who touched these pages
all along

being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas

~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned

"what is it like to think of a poem?"

"it's like walking down an empty street at
midnight, listening to your footsteps, then
hearing a song way off in the distance,
somewhere around the corner, maybe from
an old radio in a windowsill
and you only hear certain words, certain
phrases, so you write them down and hope that
in some broken way they read like music."

You traitor,

black haired

pirate

to my

heart,

leaving my

soul empty

blue,

blind to

even faith.


and it is

going to

be a day

that I

must say no

to the

morning.

sky looking

to spit over

these colonial

hills and

memories

of you.


that lie

like a raggedy Anne

doll with a

black cold

dead expression

upon it's

face.

now standing

next to

this iron

laid railroad

line.


I will lose

myself

again

in you,


in the  

next beggar's

town that this

track

will carry

me to.

unraveling

before my

eyes ,


in this

tangled yarn

kind of day.

S/He/It
SHeIt
Sheit
****
It happens.