I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle

."My regrets look just like texts I shouldn't send."

My heart leaps at the connection of lyrics. My depression formulates.
Reality hits me all at once.

"I got neighbours, they're more like strangers; we could be friends."

I look deeply into myself. I'm aware that I'm hidden beneath a façade. Could they ever accept the real me? Would they still fancy me?

"I just need a way out of my head. I'll do anything for a way out of my head."

Forever hidden, my emotions remain. This melody brings my subconscious to the surface. My persona preventing the reality and potential felicitations;

My thoughts scatter.

Am I still worthy of their affections?

All of these words
And feelings
B                 o
      u
                 n            c
                           e
Around inside of me; the
Pen is my weapon of choice
As I battle myself to
Gather myself.

My grimoire;
Rivers of spilled ink flow
Through these pages as
My emotions follow suit.

It is far less destructive
To put lead to paper
Than to allow my inner
Demons to know reality.

I feel like I could write a book full of poetry,
A hook that lasts for centuries,
A body meant for you,
And a chorus that was meant for me.

I could do all of this today,
While you all just sleep away,
The potential you’ve earned,
Watching your hair turn gray.

I could write a simple line,
Then I have seven, eight, nine,
More pages full of glee,
Full of all my poetry.

But I wouldn’t stop there,
I would quickly be aware,
That I’m still feeling the vibe,
That makes me want to share.

Sharing whatever feelings,
Whatever my mind is currently reeling,
In from the abyss,
Currently,
All I can think about,
Is the one,
I love,
The one,
I miss.

Wednesday, 9:12 p.m.

I hope
that I'm pretty
I really
feel ******
and I wish
that you were here
with me.

My fragile bones
feel likes stones
aching
and bending
and crying beneath my skin.

I'm lonely
and cold
and I just think
I could make you
so
happy.

i think you're awfully poetic
when you look at me and smile