Love isn’t a feeling
Its either a good experience
Or a bad one

Sightless I see, within my mind
An ocean of timeless horizons
A tranquil night, this endless dream
the realm my being resides in

A scattered thought from a shattered light
spreads out and takes hold inside me
An echoed sound from a stream of silence
Clings on with a hidden binding

A well so deep, a depth so dark
A thousand memories to overcome
And yet this sound, a song renewed
Emerges saying, "What's done is done."

What has been lost, while yet not found
may be restored in days unknown
The empty vessel, the broken bond
Can mend in time - but not alone

The night, while dark, must still secede
And though it may grow long,
I wait in hope your light will come
So I may see the dawn.

"You are twisted
and your tongue permanently tastes of cherries." -
you say,
but I just tie cherry knots
with my fruit-infused tongue,
and laugh at your complaints.
Red neon numbers remind me
of your lips on mine.
Gripping at the empty side of the bed,
wishing I were somehow still in your head.
You and I were similiar and collided
in coexisting lives.
I can see a jaw drop
the hand moving south
as if to slip into the knife drawer
of a total solar eclipse.
Six shots deep so I could forget your name,
and all of the reason I love you.
Instead I sat there
with him,
(not you)
crying over cherry stems.

I saw something
It made me feel something
The end.

"Funny poems aren't taken seriously",
the figure splashes verbal acid over the
crumpled piece of paper I handed them.
Refusing to laugh
Curling their lip.
The paper quickly,
without a thought,
thrusted back into my hands.

They leave behind my thought
which fills the space between
myself, fidgeting alone
and them, striding away.

Does it have to be serious
to be taken seriously?

A mental court gathers itself around me
Myself, a defense attorney
Pointing a stained finger
at the figure on the stand.

I present the shoe-eating Peruvian
and his limerick friends.
Generations of drinking songs
often crass, but lasting.

There is laughter from the jury
There is hope for the poems.

Then my final evidence
the crumpled paper
I read it aloud

silence.

Is split by the dull chuckle of the figure
elbows in suit jacket pressed against the stand.

"Sure, there's examples from the past,
but you?
the troubled kid?
the depressed one?
the pariah?"

I glance at more files, appearing,
my name on each.
analysis,
evaluation,
diagnosis,
test.

Laughter, the type that jeers,
grows into a crescendo.
I huddle, hands over ears,
creasing my suit
but the muted version is worse.

I stagger to my feet.
The court has morphed cruelly
into an arena of sorts.
Brutal, simple, life-ending
decisions are made here.

My jacket is gone
My cheek openly bleeds
My sleeves have ripped
revealing the scars below.

I hurl out, from deep within me
"It's because I'm ****** up that
I need to write it!
Don't you understand?
Making people laugh
keeps and edge off the old habits
keeps the thoughts where they belong!"
My voice is hoarse.
The arena tightens.

Even as I say it, I'm overwhelmed by the thoughts
That I do not belong.
That a funny poem punctuated by my fingers
despite their past harm
delivered from my mouth
despite its harsh denouncements
and shared by my whole self
despite my self-banishment

is not enough.

I sink to the ground, stripped of my senses.
My poems have turned course
once helping ease pain,
now proliferating it.

My fingernails pierce the palm of my hand
through the crumpled paper
and two drops of blood strike the tiles.

I meant for this to be
a funny poem
But I guess it's about why
some people need to write them.

To me, you're like a rotten peach.
Once good, now bad-though you still looked fine on the outside.
Just a few marks here and there,
A scratch or two,
No harm done.
I was happy with you-happy to have you in my life.
Then,
You turned out to be ****-bitter and rotten on the inside.
Such a ****** disappointment

I reach out, begging,
waiting as I hold my breath,
hoping for the waves to return,
to stretch out,
to splash against my sand-coated feet.
Staring out at the ocean,
I wish.
I dream.
I pray.
But somewhere in my mind,
I have long since given up.
Call it selfishness,
call it greed.
Never will the ocean touch my flesh,
but I still crave to hold the salty water
up to my dry, cracked lips,
embracing its sting,
crying out for the sweetness
you and I long lost.

We         walk among the land
               with a mask of two.
                One eye me.
                One eye you.

Can         there be an infinity,
                if all to see is one?
               Our infinity is opening,
               there is only one.

Only      one choice
                one mistake,
                one idea,
                one life.

See          our sprinkles of light
                shine gold,
                within the dark.
                We know that there is no limit in our sparks.
                We all fall in the glaze within the eye of
                one.
Half         of us believe in two eyes,
                the rest accepts our being as it is.

Of          all the colours surrounding us,
              blue,yellow,red,green,purple, and orange.
              We can only pick one.
              It is impossible to choose two.

The      lights that we walk within will forever be engrave
             as our faith,
             as our soul.
             One eye me,
              one eye you.
              This is who we are.
              This is our
World.