I hit my leg against the bed,
A sudden pain began to spread.
Perhaps it rose up from my soul,
A jolt, a snap, the greatest show—
My femur’s way to pull me back
And show me I’m not whole.

Then later on, you called my name,
And I agreed to play your game.
We talked, we laughed, we shared a kiss,
But I still felt no trace of bliss.

We made love, you held me tight,
Then fell asleep while I stayed wide.
I watched you breathe with quiet eyes,
While yours were closed to all the night.

There’s so much salt within my tide,
Yet I can’t sink, though I have tried.
Perhaps I think that love and pain
Must wear the same poetic chain,
Or beauty needs a tragedy
To make it feel complete to me.

It’s all I know, it’s all I’m worth,
You said I’m perfect, but since birth,
I’ve only ever been designed
To be a thing you leave behind.

Sincerely, I am just a verse,
A secret poem, soft, immersed,
Beneath your sheets so clean and white.
And though one line may break its rhyme,
It tells me joy is bound to find
Us both, in time, despite kismet signs.

I’ve lived in your heart for a minute now.
And though I love it here,
the faucet leaks,
the door doesn’t shut right
sometimes I have to hold a hand to it
just to lock it back.

When you drink, the space between your ribs
tightens, and your liver expands.

The neighbors aren’t so bad.
They keep to themselves.
When they see me, we talk about
how high the rent is,
how much we don’t get in return for the association fees,
how often we wake up to notices on our door
about late payments
always knocking like the police.

For this reason, I don’t attend any of the meetings.
But I don’t want to leave.

I’ve lived in your heart for a minute now
long enough to sleep through the creaks
when it settles,
long enough to know that home is where my heart is.

Forever isn’t a day here.
It stretches into the way you snore
when you think no one is listening
probably my favorite sound

If she is not beautiful,
Nothing is,

If her eyes are not deep,
Than the ocean is a puddle,

If her kiss is not a blessing,
There is no magic in anything else,

If her taste is no wine,
Than no drug will entrance me.

What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?

She moves fast like a city
full of names, things to do,
and places to be.
No matter how fast she moves,
there is always a spot for you.

Regardless of where you go,
not every woman, not every city,
is the same.

She highlights her personality,
the buildings of her priorities,
Her personalities,
like dominos
uncovered and placed strategically.

The way she was raised,
the not so pretty parts,
Behind the well known parts
of her,
not necessarily put away.
But still, there is a place for you.
Whether it's a quiet night in,
or an event organized
to get to know each other better,
the margins of her heart beat for you
Between the counties.

Although she moves fast,
and one day with her varies from the next,
she's not afraid to let you know that she's busy.
Once she handles all of her business,
be ready to catch up on all that missed time.

But don't forget
she doesn't just find the time
to call or text.
She shows up.
You too are a part of her world

Blackened
In shadows deep, where silence reigns, A journey marked by unseen chains.
Through corridors of night we tread, Seeking solace in the dread.
The echoes linger, cold and stark, In every heart, a lasting mark. To depths unknown, we cast our gaze, In twilight's grip, we lose our ways.
Enticed by voids, we break the ties, In newfound space, where darkness lies.
With every step, a story traced, In haste we move, yet time erased.

Clouds form and fill the sky
Everything turns gray.
Still, there is no you.
You don't say sorry.
You don't say anything.

I walk outside,
Expecting to see you
At the very least, hear you
Rumble closer.

The sky is just as stubborn,
Refusing to move.
Here I am, outside
Head tilted back,
Mouth open, waiting for you.

Picturing your voice
Rumbling in the distance.
You don't say that you're sorry.
The rain still hasn't come

I think I cut too deep
Look at that cut on me
It hasn’t healed for fourteen days
It won’t never go away
Maybe they’ll finally notice
How I’m far past my lowest
Look into the open wound
Staring back with eyes of stound
Watch it drip honey
And gush out sounds of
A time when I was funny
And not the time now where I am but a dove