Be unrealistic, congratulations!
You are privileged.
And think me wrong,
I am only a realist.
If you don't like the observational
It's because you fail to see
Things as they really are
And rather, how you'd like them to be.

Would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
Would a rose gifted by another sweep me off of my feet?
Would the fragrant scent make me so softly weak?

Never have I ever been one for flowers,
Their allure held but for a few hours,
A vibrant life for temporary display,
Before they drop all their petals, wilt away.

A perspective from closed eyes open to see,
Finding sincerity in the twelve before me,
Watching their flirtatious shadows dance
As the petals sway to the breezes romance

Studying their intricate details,
Have I never read the story each rose tells?
Sewn into the earth, cared for, tended to,
Their history of love, unfolding in bloom
Like books unfurling pages, one by one
Each petal a testament to the tenderest love

I imagine his eyes, the warmth of his heart
For a moment their stories and my own were of one part.
Gifted with the purest intentions, a hopeful beginning
From those hands seeking love, never-ending

So would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
If from the hands of the one who gifted them to me.

How
can
something
smell
so
sweet
yet
taste
so
bitter?

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

to be the kind of person
who will glimpse
the cherry blossom tree
beautifully delicate
in its early bloom
fluttering the palest pink
against a fragile white
desperate against even
the gentlest of breeze
but only observe
the black and the white
of what the premature
might mean for later
commenting how soon
these branches will lose
their graceful lustre
no longer to inspire
those hopeful wanderers
only to appear barren
and lifeless once again

i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess

In the grass, snakes lie
Fangs bared, ready to strike,
Slither over consciousness,
Turning strength weak,
As insidious thoughts do inside.
Cause man to pause,
As like a stone;
Movement defies