Wasn't, not was...
The tale of entertained innocence
Speak of the devil, is all of a heed, a buzz?
Long times with a pretty eye, that took on the proverbial since...

Honey, and a summary land...
Sent to a rhyming breeze? obscure was a noble they
Venting irony for a risen dance? welcoming mercy at hand
Baring the shall's comment to a calling? secrets with prettier eyes, may...

Talking with the burden; so adroit, of a banal instinct...?
Has focused another's eye on the problems of home...
Heavenly couth or the curse of happenstance
Has welcomed us, not the spoil of demand, but a wish becoming some...

Wealth, versus wisdom
In the pity, we fight like aristocratic futures...
Found like a stricken conversation let, to complete and win
Salvation of a peace; is ours for question we made, to purity...

But, where, is the fun in that...
Save your hug first, for a rolling presence of sharing a loyalty
Simple as pie, a black bird has spilled the beans, a royal isn't...
That is the cough of dependency, for a soul with or without, simplicity?

Good morning, angel
How was the nights resolve, sleepy philosophy till the end?
You awoke when a silence was early, the hour given to little...
Loves and daring decency, of a waiting hope, to make your liberty a host to render...?

The patience you show, and the embarrassment of should?
A showing live of simpler sorts, with the count of shadows...
Persistent little cease and desist, approval of a nary come would
Without a friend for hap, from here to eternity with a spoken said:

Wishes that play the part
Wishes that compare final luck, to a promise that seems to keep
Wishes that rued the irony of poise, into two parts of art
Wishes that sake a divine course for the breath of a season's leap

Of succinct chances and flowers that gave the wonder of solitude...
Somewhere, the poignancy of a shared idea, if not the dragon that made you...
Is a weary hindsight, that has sat on the laurels of worth, like a shoulder
Your care for these, meant and lent with virtue, has juice to please?

You like to pluck the
bones of my ribcage, with your callous
fingertips
Till they bleed
Like I
pluck the strings of my
backwards guitar, and watch the
flowers wilt away

Progress is the storm

that has risen at the gates --


of Eden's garden.

i have words inside of me
and i can’t say
any of them.
i don’t even know
what they are.
what happened to my voice?
it feels like it’s been a while
since i had something to say.
living underwater, living like a corpse.
i wake up and then go back to sleep
because “awake” is not “autopilot”.

why am i so tired?

On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land