I love to eat with just a spoon: soups, puddings too, if there is room. I love to eat with forks and knives while dining in with friends and wives. I love to eat with little sticks, especially the tricky bits. But most of all with hands and fingers or any things where flavors lingers.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
I am internally screaming.
But I keep my mouth shut,
And my scars hidden.
A poem every day.
a week ago
i turned 26.
two days ago
i hurt myself again
for the first time
in four years.
this time i didn't
use the little blades
from my razor.
this time i
got more personal.
used my own fingernails
to dig deep for the life
i'm scared to live
beneath this skin.
then i took some
deep breaths in
& restarted the journey again.
yikes. isn't it so scary to be so honest with yourself?
Hit like a bomb
52nd Republican day
A horrible way
Even when the ink started to run
You helped me find the meaning in the verse
Your cologne smelled like September
And I knew even if we both got lost out there
The sun would still rise and set
I took a lesson from the darkness
I never scorch my tongue on hot coffee anymore
I read the words I used to ignore
happy birthday to me
and everyone else who took their first breathe today
we're the chosen ones
officially in my twenties
At 26, he lost his one and only amour'. 26, his soul left his body suddenly with a roar! 26, none more worries.! 26. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . End of his story!!!!
If I wanted to describe you,
I would need to learn
To write in numbers
For there are only
Letters in the alphabet
And I would need every one of them,
Just to describe you
Not for a crush, but a friend
i never ran out of words.
i'd see the night sky and i could describe it in a hundred ways --
i could say it was the ocean reflecting the twinkling lights above;
or maybe a moonlit path now visible through the waves.
i'd feel the wind brushing my cheek
and write about how it tousled my hair into messy tendrils--
how it plays with the leaves one moment
and the next leaves them astray under warmly-lit streetlamps.
oh i could write for endless hours
about disasters, impossibilities, probabilities
and i never ran out of words.
there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet and they never failed me.
but then i saw you.