Someday doesn't mean reassurance -
a pocket for small , frail hopes.
Someday means someday will arrive.

Make her a dress.
With your own two hands.
Out of nothing and everything.

When someday comes,
make her beautiful
for yourself.

Trains pass by
Hiding bombs
Waiting to kiss the sky
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.

Another pill passing lips
From broken fingertips.
I wonder why my hands died
Before the rest of me could.

Empty monsters
Fill up attics
With my dead friends.

They walk past

Poems

Laughter and

Love

Just as empty by the end
As they were at the start.

So far
Nobody good
Has mentioned
My dead hands.

The drunken ghosts
Whispering to walls
Still blame me
For your death.

And my beauty is blurred
By my dead hands.
And my chest is bruised
By your young death.

And my glass philosophy
Has begun to shatter
Under the light
Of the blue hours
I've been drowning in.

My hands
lost sense of feeling
from all the sanitization

Fingers loosely interlaced,
caressing the flesh
cuddling the palms
brimming with pristine emotions.
I feel subtle touches
tender, warm, responsive.
Certainty intertwined
commitment gently placed
a promise of keeping knitted.
Something runs deep through the veins
affectionate racing pulses.
With hands clenched
and walking side by side
we vow a journey of acceptance
forever and for always.

I want to get away
Get away to that place
That place with the balcony, the umbrella
And the cold sand

What if  I can’t
What if I can’t escape
Escape to that space
That place in another land

Would you please just
Just give me that touch
The escaping sensation  
Of your healing hands