When the words
"I am a poet"
escapes from my lips,
people claim how full
of emotions I must be.

They seem to be shocked,
when they get to read me,
my poetry, my work,
how little emotional I am.

I am a poet,
because once upon a time
I chose to write
instead of dying.

Only when I let my thoughts be free,
I allow myself to feel,
and only when I write
I get to know some version of me.

Cannibalism starts with a kiss,
but I want to
offer him my blood,
and as cherry wine
pour it into a fancy glass,
I want to be served
on his dinner table
a three course meal,
save my heart for dessert,
and the only favor I will ask
is for him to use my fingertips
to clean the corners of his mouth.
A final act of intimacy,
for a fatal love.

We spend a lifetime thinking the same thing,  
Trapped in time, in an extreme bond.  
Something that doesn't consist,  
what the mind insists on.  
Something you wish were true,  
but the reality is cold and selfish.

Our own individualistic thoughts,  
but I believe, someone who is nothing,  
that few would agree with the mixed truth.  
They prefer something more minimalist,  
that makes everything seem so reasonable,  
that the world is uncertain and improbable.

That it couldn't even be remarkable,  
unless you realized you were wrong,  
but few accept what is bitter and delicate,  
but it's not for such truth or lies  
that my verse will be revealed.

I'm trying to say  
that I stare at the sky, waiting for something to happen,  
because they told me I should see a shooting star,  
and since then every year has been entirely dedicated to it.

My life is running out every day,  
and thinking about the shooting star that might even come to me,  
But if my time had been wasted,  
my life would have stopped forever.  
I'd be living for something I should have,  
and not for what I wanted.

That's why I gave up the whole night to look,  
but it's funny that in the end her fall I saw light up.  
Maybe, just maybe, when it's meant to be,  
it will happen no matter if you take the wrong path,  
So live the way you want, because if it's meant to be, it will be. (Or maybe not, who says I know anything?)

A busway stops at a certain station
People come through
Then walk off
And the cycle repeats itself
Its the same bus .
Just different people
various stories and lives
I long to know
But will never be able to

He fell for me,
even when my days are quiet,
even if my emotions
remain hidden.

He loves me,
despite my emptiness
and solitude,
the way I don't communicate
because I'm not used to being heard.

He shows me his love,
in the same way painters
and musicians do,
intimately.

He chose me,
even if he wanted someone
who love as loudly as he does,
he found peace in me instead
something he wasn't familiar with,
just as I wasn't familiar with the idea of being loved.

I like your pathetic.
Maybe it’s sick,
Maybe it’s wrong,
But the tears your eyes cry for me
Turn me on.
The way you beg me to stay,
The way your voice breaks—
It feeds something in me
I can’t even explain.
I don’t want to fix you.
I don’t want to save you.
I want you raw,
Ripped open,
Needing me.
It’s not love.
It’s the craze.
And I want every drop of it.

I'm like a penny,

just a small worthless penny.

you wouldn't pick up a ***** penny off the street-

so why would you help me up off my feet?

and just like a penny-

you'll say "oh, keep it, it's just a penny,"

and you'll forget about it, you probably won't need it,

because a penny lost means nothing to you...

and just like a penny, so I must mean nothing to you.


but even the gathered pennies could amount to something.

but me?
i'm just one penny
and i can't amount to much.


I'm just one penny,

and when you see me as that little penny

and you say "oh get over it, it's not a big deal".


then you play heads or tails and life and death are at stake

and I am that penny
who is tails up and buried six feet under ground;
forgotten.
overlooked.
ignored.
worthless.

Years’ worth in our days swirl in our thoughts of lovely hands clasped in ours with no resolve of ever letting go.

Though the fates and sanguine melancholy conspire to break the bonds nothing can keep this sight from being enthralled

shall he, happiness dancing waltz with the sea, ever forget?

The tempest-swept shore of unyielding grace remains true to the beacon, be it in the peaks or prairies; a promise,

no matter how trampled still blossoms without the acquiescence of seasons, be they winter or spring,

until the day a tombstone is offered and a coat rack for weariness to hang,

no smiles will eternally be wasted on a frown as is with fear will be on Pennywise the clown.

We are here, and we are now until we become yesterday, our hearts unbowed

And yet, long after light has left times eyes, and last fogging breath has been drawn,

the echoes resound, love, unyielding, seared into the skin of eternity.

Strands of flesh, a promise, binding lives that once strobed like starlight, the universe chants with shared joys, sorrows, and dreams.

For every stumble, every fracture, every tear that pelted our time, we rise, reforged in the fires of devotion’s heat.

Love is no fleeting gale but the tide that shapes continents, despite the world’s cruel dissonance, harmony prevails.

And when the final curtain falls on this fleeting stage, let it be known we did not merely survive but thrived, kindled.

Cedar wood house
aching with arthritis
still standing atop a hill,
at me, she blew a kiss,
dreaming I could feel,
and as made my way
down the horizon
where the flowering
dogwood-covered
peaks rose
to this valley,
where whiskey flows,
old mountain ranges
have always been
November’s ghost.

I’m on this road
thinking it will lead me home,
but all along,
I was wrong,
my home lives with me
in my bones.
Faces I knew by heart,
in time faded until forever gone,
I’m left here singing their song
with their names etched
on winter stones.

This road has grown weary
leading me to golden places
that weren’t even there;
all the while it was I
chasing castles in the air,
and I was foolish enough
to care about running after
a mirage anywhere,
all along,
by my side, the happiness
that I dared myself to find,
has always been with her.