Golden locks,
Like keys on a string,
With eyes of grey,
Like a calm, cloudy day.
Yet they shine like you,
Like their own hue.
One not defined by color,
By mind or soul,
But by you.
A gift it is to see that light,
And to feel it shine like rays just right.

The porcelain
wind of the
moon lifts
it’s wings
of mine
to see
the clouds,
deserts and
dreams of
reality as
one, the
endless
stories of
the green
and golden
fields of
painted
starlight,
the breath
of unspoken
songs in the
conversation
of eyes, too
aerial to be
held, as the
rising, gentle
wind through
the leaves,
and the hair
of lovers in
discovery
of forests
touched
with mist,
rising above
the mountains,
falling as the
song of rain,
they are
rain dancers
who see poetry
as all, and all
is water

—After Sum 41

Through your social distortion of extortion at the
most absurd proportions, I realize I need a doctor
not a proctor for when I test the helicopter you said
you’d never offer to a lowly pauper. You could say it’s my
bad I even tried that so now I cry-laugh in the lilacs while my mom
throws bombs through satcoms to lighten the weather. I should’ve
known better and left the head sever nether that continuously had
me tethered to the emotionally unfettered. I really need to find an
honest man before I enforce a plan of a 1000th trimester abortion.
                                                                                              bortion
                                                                                         bortion
                                                                                     bortion  
                                                                                bortion
                                                                            bortion
                                                                        bortion
                                                                    bortion
                                                                bortion
                                                            bortion
                                                        bortion
                                                    bortion
After all the fat lips you gave me I
realized I’m a matchstick baby and don’t
need your rabies to save me. I don’t think I want
to live in your lair with your despair share stares turning to
a bitter taste once I start to face the human waste
falling on my head when I fall in your bed instead of my
king sized comforter singing trumpeter of a simple time—
childhood confined, morality defined by design until I become
the demons as you free them for freedom until they’re just another
lover to call my brother. The hits to my lips caused a casualty
of me casually even though I was never alive actually. Of
all the fists fighting me, it’s you I’d like to remove from society.

The quietness prevails.
I'm trapped in, but want out of this jail.
Emotions or illusions?
Assumption or conclusion?
I am trying to focus;
My sanity, it doesn't hold up.
Remember what they told us:
Shut up, silence is golden

He's doing better now
number one
my first time

He sent me an email
because I saved his life

He's sober and holy
all set
all the time

He said he will pray for me
His prey, not mine.

He hopes I'm well
I'm good
I'm golden

He forgot he did the damage
I'm healing, he's broken

He thinks I meant to save him
tell mother
tell God

I only wanted space from him
let me go, get lost

His email said "hey"
as the title
as the heading

I wanted to curse him
I'm trying
I'm forgetting.