It ate all my poems,
Except the few,
That were in short term memory,
And I blame you.

The spinning sea, a vortex rhymed.
Every day, I want to see what's mine.

O + dot(s)

on pages
and hands
our love
around and around
we draw
and draw
until all your ink ran out,
and now I'm but a line
drifting on a blank canvas.

It is what it was

It was just because

that's how it's always been

Now

It's not what it should be

nevermind could be

yet here we go again

going outside nowadays is just a game of
who can hold their breath the longest and of
looking for reasons to pass the time in your
own backyard but the gardens i see are only for
the literary muses haunting writers into submission
and for digging up holes with plastic shovels and
for wishing that i could pick up the daisies
and place them in your hair

i was in the middle of drawing a circle when
my arm quivered and now the line shoots
way past the paper and it's currently
undulating over my desk and zooming past
a caterpillar that's contemplating whether the
process of becoming beautiful would actually
make him beautiful when he already knows
that he is beautiful

i hope the god i pray to forgives me for
making all the lines i write be about you