What hurts the most
is believing you can't write
So you let the demon, like the final wave
crash upon you and win the fight.

You love passion but you've forgotten its meaning,
searching for the bold letters in the dictionary like puzzle pieces.
You love something that doesn't follow the final print
So you let the ink tear away your paper mâché.

Stop feeling like one word can't mean another.

Love can mean cherished can mean adored can mean perceived.

We are lost in our meanings.

Every **** one of us.

Whether you like it or not, we are all lost.

Don't you realize it?

Wake up!

We are lost dolls scurrying in an open field trying to find the reality different from the one uniting us right now.

Look around. We are right there. You are here too. Beside us. That's you.

If you're alone, then the definition must mean we all are too. Alone together.

Unitedly lonely.

She belongs in the poetry of someone else now,
I loved her so much, and yet lost her somehow.
So perhaps this could be it, an end to my verse,
for I've no longer muse, but hey, could be worse.

Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?

Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?

I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.

I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"

I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!

But ****;
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).

Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.

The release,

Adrenaline,

Addictive,

Fuelled,

Fired,

Final.....

never again will I look into your eyes like they are the ocean.
you're not the ******* ocean.
you were never mysterious and charming
seashells pressed against my ear only muffled the words you said, what sounded like the soothing whisper of the ocean waves, were really the tides crashing violently onto the shore.
I lay now on this beach, I wait for a storm to follow me to my spot here on the sand, but I am left dry.
I see the water steady, and you are so far gone past the horizon, that when the sun sets, your silhouette is all that appears.
perspective sets in,
and I remember how you were a poisonous creature captivating me with every lethal injection the power of your words compelled.
I remember I'm alone.
I know that it's okay.
because you are not the ocean,
you are only one of its inhabitants,
and there are so many more creatures worth diving in for,
there are so many reasons to swim deeper.

He stood on the "Endless Bridge" in Guthrie Theater,
And looked onward at the old abandon mill district of Minneapolis.

The crescent moon ascended to the glimmer of the city lights
As the nature of the wind pulled his hair back to shed his hidden soul.

The Mississippi River clash against the pavements of the dam,
And the moist from the river felt through the air on the pours of the skin.

Neon lights of the 35W reminded the contemporary architect of modern city,
But the old mill district had it's ever so present among the modern buildings.

In that silence she walked down the aisle from the theater entry onto the balcony,
The silent graceful walk even in heels like a prey of the jungle,
There she stood next to him to reach her arm around his.

He glanced onto her face matching his eyes to her's,
And she pulled the most warm honest smile of innocence.

Upon his gaze upon her dark glistened navy blue dress,
With golden neckless he gave her as their anniversary gift,
And pearl earring illuminated the moon light of nightly beauty.

"You look majestic," barely able to mutter as he faced her side by side,
And his back against the solid balcony wall.