It was a cloudless night of winter,
the dim light was entering through window in my room
I found her
at the edge of my dreams
she made was from broken dreams flowers in hair ,  eyes made of oceans
she looks like everything I wanted ,
she was violently peaceful, was all the seasons and different shapes of moon,
she has a sweet laughter , which makes me sleep unafraid in dark lonely night
I closed my eyes tight ,
to make her stay for a long
but she walks inside the dark streams of my mind, making her way to infinite ocean and disappeared
I drift off and Lost her in the quiet December night

It was the darkest and the coldest
night of the year,
I smelled the fear,
And traveled to the end
Where I found you in the stars,
I silenced myself and heard the calm of calms
The deep breath of yours,
You were like the bright light of thousands sun ,
Makes me listen to my heart,
Showed me my strength,
Told me how much I mean to everyone,
I listened my heart , realized there is nothing as strong as my heart,
I am the wolf, I am the fear eater
And I can live forever.

Suffering is why art is created.
Suffering and love.
Both, which I find pretty ******* awful.
I would never wish either of them on anyone
Love has caused me more misfortune and abuse,
than any substance I have ever consumed.
Love, is filled with many more chemicals,
Than the countless cigarettes I have smoked.
At Least, cigarettes provided me with a sense of comfort,
While any form of love I was given,
Would cause my hands to shake,
let my brain run wild,
And left my body to ache.
past lovers lips leave awful tastes in your mouth
which seem to stay,
even after years of them being away.
suffering and love go hand in hand,
they are partners in crime.
one cannot love without suffering,
one cannot suffer without love.
in a sense, it is strung to the common belief that,
opposites attract
love is suffering
suffering is love
that is not a metaphor,
but a fact.
maybe i am writing this,
because I have watched too many of Bukowski’s poetry readings,
or because your lips are still in my mind.
I gave you every inch of my being,
Just to see you smile,
because I loved you.
maybe, that’s why I am now alone,
Suffering.
because I loved you,
And like I said,
suffering is love.
love is suffering
and I loved you so much,
I thought that putting all of myself
into a glass bowl,
and trusting your sweaty palms,
to keep a firm grip on it,
was a good idea,
because I wanted to believe in you,
and my head wasn’t in the right place,
I was not okay,
I had thought maybe your hands
were different,
Maybe they would not cause
my body to shatter
And my soul to spill out,
Onto the floor,
Like blood onto concrete,
But that’s exactly what they did,
And your hands did not apologize,
as I fell onto the floor,
they did not try to piece me back together,
they did not try to gather up my contents
your hands just left me there,
fragments of myself left to linger
on your carpet.
and sometimes,
I wonder
if you can still hear
the segments of my body,
crack in between
your doc marten boots.

there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording

her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children

there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute

where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy

with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step

somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans

Ikke flere tårer
ikke mere smerte
kun mindet
om den syvende december

Cold chills,
Holiday thrills.
Family gatherings,
Love ones depart.
Cold hearts,
And warm bellies.
Death may visit,
But, love is here to stay.
This month of December
May end in dismay.

He asked his wife to get her
dance moves on a christmas night.
To twist and twirl like ballerinas
do in fancy ballrooms. To feel
the heat and vibes and create
a spark tonight. The candles flickering flame was moving
from the left to the right with
such an excite. The flames
went from orange to red every
time his hands slid down on
the small of her back. They
must of blushed while they
did the tango as well. They
must of sighed when they
kissed as the carols went
off. He made love to her
body on that christmas
night. When the lights
went dim and the
flames caressed
and licked the
concrete walls.
While the cold
winter's air
touched their
bodies and skin
as they were
exposed* ~