Daily counting worth for measure,
is one more enough, for pleasure,

or must we, plural I, seem reassured
we know too much to believe you're right.

Working overtime, thinking you are worth less,
than the wages paid a worker on duty as chief
satisfied mind, absent all care and concern,

for fretfull regulated safety well behind that wall.

------------------

butterflied flay of cloud
Rorschach blots
                  cricket white on nursery blue
skilled autopsy of the summer sky
i feel like raw skin having a plaster removed

A poem has rules and structure, a rhyme has to be well thought out and neat.
My words much like our love lack these qualities right now… like our love they are raw without rhyme or reason, not well thought out and by all means an absolute mess… and I think it’s beautiful, the way my brain turns to goo when I think of you. The way my heart forgets to keep its walls up when you hold me. The way when I see your smile I can’t understand the funny bursting feeling in my chest. I can’t explain how the curve of your smile against mine feels like two wholes becoming one. I can’t explain why two weeks ago I could have lived without you in my life and how the idea that I did baffles and hurts my heart. My words, like our love are full of boundless opportunities that could go on forever and climb to the greatest heights,  if only my heart could speak clearly… I can’t explain what it feels like to walk alone cold scared constantly slipping looking for shelter in all the wrong places and the relief I found the night I fell into your warm embrace, I can’t explain why you smell like home, feel like safety and kiss like passions personification….
I mean maybe I can, maybe I have some words but do they make much sense coming from this love drunk fool?

am I more than a drink
taken per food group
swallowed by instinct.
you’re more to me than thirst.
sliced by feeling,
unpeeled heart wrenching
take from all and, Nothing.
I wait for you here,
so perhaps the taste of you
lights back stars, and starlight.
perhaps the taste of you
finds pathways in the back of legs, of knee.
you are permenent in the heat of love
but sliced in essence.
**** ME
and ask very little in return, ask of holding.
your **** as it grows limp in the moonlight,
all I miss is the taste of your absence
all I taste is the feeling of you
finished inside of me which laid the foundations of something larger than what this body can contain,
I love it, the hurt of your breaking into me.
and hurt of the love that remains.

no matter what form
of pain
comes into your life
pain is always raw
and brutal