There is no perfect word,
no adjective or noun
just a combination of
         I hate
         I worry
         I regret
         Am I enough?

It's a moment where my insecurities
are no longer a low hum
and I discover a whole
          new shade of
                  self-doubt

I suppose we wear our traumas
the way the guillotine wears gravity;
our lovers necks are so soft.
So sweet
Too innocent;
Kisses like cold, corrupt metal.

Those seven seconds of silence
When you wait for anything;
Any sign that they understand
What you’ve been through
waiting in those seconds
To be reassured by
‘I love you’

Sitting in dust of a dark room
Confiding in them your secrets
Those seven seconds of silence
They **** you.

On edge, free falling
The guillotine dropping in your stomach
Eyes desperate for reassurance
at complete mercy
To this person
Right in front of you

And when they hug you
Brought your head out of danger
Shattered the blade

Saved you from death

Loved you to life

That guillotine,
Nothing more
Than fear of being unloved

Breath in:
         It’s okay;
Breath out:
         He’s still here.
Life won’t
         Just fade away,
So stop
         All of your worry.
He would tell
         You if it got bad.
He’s a big boy—
         He can live his life.
You don’t need
         To **** in;
He probably
         Wouldn’t like it.
But what if
         He needs me?
And what if
         He can’t say?
Repeat.

I must be the problem
I can sense the annoyance
Their lack of words leave me shaking

I am sorry
For being me
Existing, perhaps

They're tired of it
Needing reassurance
My anxiety

And like that
I am lost in you.
The simplest of touch is all it takes.
Lost in that feel good place that beckons our name over and over.
The physical manifestation of what we both know to be true.
The feel of your skin pressed tight against mine.
Our fingers lost in the rhythm.
The Times we've made mistakes like this.
Our lips hesitant.
Reaching out to one another in a pace we can both relate.
You feel me and I know this to be true.
Both of us lost.
Slipping and sliding in reassurance.
Eluding the overwhelming thought that at any moment our eyes will shut tight and our inner fear will dissipate into eruption.
Anticipation built high.
We both brace for the thrill of fire.
A match striking the side of box.
Over and over until we are both consumed.
Blown away in satisfaction.
Neither of us can speak.
The peak of ascension.
And Like that I am lost.
Caressing you until the last ember is blown out

Come not so much on the nights
when you are alone, or your mind is filled with grief.
The nights when the stars are the hardest to see.
Tucked beneath a blanket of clouds.
Of all the streets, one way streets are often the loneliest.
These are the times where we recognize ourselves the most.
And like the stars I tuck you in my arms.
Soft & nestled.
It's more times that exist outside of these moments.
Come also when you are free & every star can be seen.
Genuine in the way the moon shines.
Your face.
Never to flee in search of where to shine next.
The smoothness of your skin.
These bright moments that fill the sky.
Your voice the only thing that lulls the storm to rest.
Your curves being the constellation I long to see.
On the nights when your mind is at ease and there isn't a care in the world.
Learning wisdom in the moments of silence.

When I walked in I didn't know what to expect.
Each room highlighted in light.
A oral tradition. To make ourselves at home upon request.
In reciprocation we do.
The rooms we gather in, the ones we walk past.
The objects we fill to take up space.
The rooms a clear reflection of Spring.
The molding painted white.
I was told that some rooms are not to be visited.
Everything has it's season and this isn't one of them.
Placing blame on the rooms.
I want to explore them most I said.
The ones that go unseen.
The things we rarely shine light to.
The places films of dust continue to grow.
These are some of the best places to go.
The beauty of things we walk past day to day.
The smile unknown destinations can bring.
Cultivating the ideas we keep cluttered.
Gasping for air.
These are the rooms I want to explore most.
The parts of you that you strictly keep to yourself.
Only when you are comfortable to share these rooms with me.
To kiss the floor with our feet.
To dwell in the past staring into our future.
We are the pendulums trapped inside the clock

Please consider, when reading my poetry
It is poetry, it's not always autobiography.
I have a gift, to zip back and forth in time
And then to render that journey in rhyme.
I tell what I felt then and sometimes connect
It to the world today, to let you see correctly
What it has meant for me to be the real me
And to let you understand the me you see.

I feel that is my job, a journalist in rhyme,
Sometimes to paint pretty fantasies, and
Often to paint thoughtful pictures of what
I have come so solidly to understand.
I may tell of a time that hurt so much
That I set it down on paper to assimilate
A better outlook and to remember it all
So to learn before it becomes too late.

Sometimes I publish a piece to read
That someone is heartbroken for me
Because they are sweet enough to care
I might be going through a sad reality,
When the portrayal I made that worried
And shook them about my rhyme
Is a story from decades ago, a tale
That comes from a much earlier time.

If I learn this has happened, I tell
The truth about that instance
And make them feel better for it
When and if I might have the chance.
So, thank you my loving readers
For taking the time to even care.
I write to make an effect on you
But never, ever meaning to scare.