Old poems.
Old me.

Lonely nights like these I wonder if I really still exist if I'm not so full of youth. I'm still young, but it feels like there's something missing in my heart everyday.
I miss who I once was.

That boy who was always trying to impress.
I feel I've given up in a sense. On being me, like an empty slate was the best form of self preservation. It's sad.

Like a character born from trauma, that's so colorless.

It's hard to differentiate sometimes, if I've missed you, or myself more. Or what we had, the innocence disappeared so quickly. Too quickly.

I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.

through tsunami waves
like fortresses
pounding with such force and restlessness
lay a hand upon this chasm
fissures along this human body.
blinked two times;
a signal for help.
you, an undercover perpetrator, spilt this ****** blood
there’s no rhyme or reason
for the capture of such purity.
the eagerness of the flesh
descending upon uneasiness.
one heart unmoored
one mourned
two hearts unbreakable
by a force of nature
so undeniable,
death is willing to submit to its feet.

Nestled in his arms, I've discovered a haven,
The refuge for my soul, a home is engraven.
A sanctuary where thoughts find gentle release,
A world of unity, my doubts meet their peace.

When weariness tugs and desolation entwines,
Life's enigmatic encounters, weaving complex designs,
In his gaze serenity blooms and finds its place,
A sanctuary of solace, a loving embrace.

Within his eyes, a realm beyond time,
Where enchantment flows in a fractal rhyme.
Familiar, like an ancient whisper, this truth so pure,
Innocence cascades, beauty's allure.

Through him a passage to celestial expanse,
An orchestra of emotions, our souls entwine and dance.
Each moment evolves, exquisitely hued,
At the threshold of forever, together with you.

Life's intricate threads lead to a destined connection,
Guiding me to him, the most profound intersection.
Gratitude rises, an endless ocean's plea,
For destiny's masterpiece, in him, I see.

She took her clothes off,

unconcerned whether she might --


want to hide something.

You planted and preened the seed you destroyed.
Your midday whispers running up my legs;
You left behind a trail of innocent tickles that,
In the empty evening air,
Curdled into a sinister, aching itch.
You left my ankles and the insides of my knees abandoned to snap down on a mosquito
In one swift, final bark.

My thighs still sting.

I saw the look of innocence
Which i used to call stupidity
In the eyes of fresh young bodies
Moving freely about the planet
To see if they can find themselves
Or some thing worth it to be
Or merely exciting the senses
I don't know which but i guess
And think i know a big mistake
That fades a bit from time to time
To let me perceive now and then
New realities and or concepts
Like the look of innocence

~
lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.

blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.

her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.
~