If buses rattle over streets
At least you jounce on comfy seats.  
Imagine a divan
Made from a frying pan
Or griddles cushioned by felt sheets.

There once was a man from Kilkenny
Who purchased a pipe for a penny,
     Then filled it with wacky
     And woolly tobacky,
And smoked himself dumb at four:twenny.

Tunneling thoughts like rain
Craning through light clouds
Unsuspecting victims.

The fear
The tears
The temper tantrums;
                                           A kind of rebuttal

That won't let our feet find land
We adjourned to rehearse,
but our efforts were null and void

Only to appease with flames
that licked our shriveled bodies

D r
       i    p
                 p  i  n
                             g  
                                              Kerosene

Tainted like ink                  Spilled on
Reams of paper
ruined like Christmas
A house warmed by          Open flames

fallen candles                     Adorning
A naked kitchen                 My limp body,

Splayed beneath the oven      
                                               As
darkness indulges,             It
consumes
The smoke,                          Fills                
                                               Each crevice
                                               In your mind

Can you ever fight it
Burn your way back
To blissful ignorance.

Now how do I put it into words,
Explaining a feeling I've never felt before,
A little piece of love; making me yearn for more,
A richly deserved taste of it's brewing love,
Inside of my cup; sometimes in a long mug,
The steam tickles my top lip hairs, I stir, and stir,
Sip, sip, careful not to get burned.

That little *** is boiling over the stove,
It whistles proudly; of my warm heart for my love.

Pulling the draw; grabbing a spoon, three teaspoons
of sugar, a full spoon of coffee, and the hot water I pour.
Oh! Looks like it's a bit to bitter, so let's grab the sugar
and add one more.

Warm blanket, warm thoughts, a warm paper,
and pen, then my warm words.

Warmth. Warmth is all I can describe of my
love in words.

Breaths taken
Midnight cold
Talking to myself
3Am's

Countless outcries
Isolation and work
Later found me
Gazing dark nights

A watched *** never boils.
But when the heat is too high, the *** boils over.
Then again, when the *** is empty and sitting on
a burner, cold to the touch, it serves little to no
purpose. Why don’t you add something to the ***?
Why is it just sitting there? What are you planning to
do with it? Are you planning on adding your own
special recipe to the ***? Are you adding a unique
sauce to it? Are you going to add water to the *** and
allow it to simmer? Or you going to add a secret ingredient
to the *** that you don’t want anybody to know about?
Is the *** going to yield a hearty meal? Is it going to be food
for my soul? Only you know what you want in this empty
***. I can’t add to, or take away from your *** Because it
doesn’t belong to me. I feel like you want to add a piece of
me to your ***. but a part of you is afraid of how the finished
recipe will turn out. How can you be afraid of an empty ***?
Why aren’t you adding your favorite foods to it?
The *** can’t produce empty contents.