Evening jokes and candle dinners,
Potted flowers hammock hours.

I miss walks along the beach,
Holding hands and making plans.

I even miss arguments and hurt feelings,
Working things out, and relearning what love is all about.

I don’t miss you. This is true.
For you were wicked and cruel.

I don’t miss ***, or getting your text,
As each word manipulation, each night of passion a hoax.

I would rather like to live again,
And make plans and joke and spoil and spend,
I would rather cuddle and my life to end,

To never need love again,
Because I would rather live laugh live beside you,
My friend.

When the heart is in anguish
so few people matter.

We are all consumed by flames
which can only be quelled
by the delicate touch
of another.
But it only matters who
not how.
As long as they try,
we can come up with an infinite amount
of justifications
to excuse ourselves of our sadness.

But think of those who try
and do not a thing for our sorrow.
They are the ones who write poems
about anguish in their hearts.

the anguish
that never leaves my heart

bites my nails
and pulls my hair out

this anguish
one day might **** me

but maybe
just maybe

it already did it

outside, amid the rubble, stands a mound two
soldiers high, made of bricks and mortar, and

cement and steel twisted up with everyday life,
where tables and chairs and beds and blankets

tumble carelessly, askew in the hot sun that beats
ceaselessly against a refrigerator toppled on its’ head,

and upon on a sewing machine halted mid-stitch,
the needle poised above the hem of a flowered dress

Delicacy in its purest form
Might have cried a tear tonight
Torn a chipper down foreworn
Tickled pink in fright

She wants to ****
To die in black
Not so simple anymore
She’s aches and whack

Can she feel the naught?
Cultural worthlessness
She is an endearment
They’ll **** her if she’s anything more

Baby