The nature of nature she is; very silent.
Not heard and can't be spoken about.
Silence, a poet's way to bring out words:
Break her and I see myself left with Songs.

The mother of words she is; very thoughtful.
Nourishes them and they forget her throughout.
Silence, a seeker's way to see the divine:
Break her and I see myself left with Gods.

Omnipresent she is; very generous.
Disguises herself as sound, music or words.
Silence, that music which stands alone:
Break her and I see myself left with tunes.

-The Silent Poet

I am beautiful,
don't you know that?

My pimples make other pimples
bow in awe,
gaze with uncontrollable lost,
my flabby arms make the women
sneer with envy.
The stripes I acquired on my thighs
and luscious backside have men telling me
I'm the next best thing.
My unibrow and hairs on my chiny-chin
on my unpainted face have makeup companies
selling my skin across mediterranean seas.
My diet has been written about in many
magazines,
even Homer follows my diet,
it's a very important part of life.
I never smoke,
I hear the world is going to outlaw it.

I have married every mirror I've come across
even my reflection in the ocean
has proposed.
How could I turn myself down
I am beautiful you know.

I am beautiful,
I can't believe you don't know that.

Every piece of me is beautiful
even the fungus on my toes,
but I hear it isn't good to brag.

The sadness creeps beneath my skin.
Shards of glass in my veins.
The unending grey seeps in through my pores.
Consuming me slowly.

A shrill sound with no reprieve.
The shouting behind my eyes.
My psyche tears like the fiber of meat.
Ripping ragged edges.
Deterioration.

Memories like fabric.
Ripples like silk.
Unlocking sealed vaults.
Excavating the contents.
A landslide.

Immense pain.
Like a fork against your molars.
A pinging sensation.
A jolt to wake you in the night.

Theres no reprieve from the ache.
The feeling of being crushed.
A rubber band around your ribs.
Your bones beg.
Crack.

Bone marrow replaced with sadness.
Too much to contain.
Pressure against the confines bone.
Snapping in two at any second.

Any bit of intelligence has been ruined.
I'm strung out in my sadness.
All thoughts are electric current.
Unharnessed.

An itchy soul.
Yearning for space.
Desperate.
Waiting for the skin to split.

Fire beginning in your fingers.
Flames licking your lungs.
The underside of your muscles burn.
Swallowed whole.

Pressure against my skull.
Fluid and mass.
The seams may split.
Spilling out.
Boiling over.

Needing peace like water.
High noon in summer.
Your throat betraying you.
Begging to quench it's thirst.

Slamming my fists against the ground.
Pulverizing the flesh of my knuckles.
Screaming into the darkness.
Praying to the gods.
Begging for mercy.

Intense and distant, the sun
Slid imperceptibly upward through the yellowing sky
As the ships powered across the water
Oars cutting into the waves.
Like a crumbling sentinel, on the cragged promontory
The temple observed the sea. Within
Sat Poseidon, golden trident in hand, his
Features frozen into gleaming marble. Around
Him, murmuring incantations, marched
His priests.
Time has dismantled it all, except
For the pillars that poke upward, jagged
Snapped-off fingers of stone clothed
In moist, inch-thick moss. The ships
Have long disappeared. The crews dead.
Beneath the waves the turbulent god
Waits, his muscular invisible arms
Shaking the ground, as he roars out
His discontent. Reduced to bedtime stories,
Beautiful Technicolor films, the old gods
Drift hopelessly through the memory
Desperately trying to be noticed again.

This one's for the forgotten gods,
for the gods whose names have faded from memory,
lost to time.
Starved from lack of devotion
You deserved better

This one's for the changed gods,
for the gods who have been made a mockery of,
reduced to comic book characters.
Living on scraps of prayers.
You will be great again

This one's for the new gods,
for the highways, TVs, casinos.
And of course the Father.
Growing fat on belief.
*You too will fade

She would drive her white chariot of the moon across the sky each night. He would do the same thing each morning with his golden sun chariot.

The day and the night maybe in love but those stories never ended well.