I live inside walls of breeze blocks,
Concrete and cinder halls.
My enemies live on the other side.
We meet sometimes—
to negotiate cease-fires
between cigarette breaks.

Still, while he offers peace,
he sets up artillery.
I ready my firearm.
She rings the bomb alarm.
The Luftwaffe ricochets—
while he prays...

He is more religion than a man.
She, more hurricane than a woman.
And I—something like a child.
Only the old and the unkind
keep count: forty-three, forty-four—
we are still at war.

After the cigarette burned out
The house burned down.
They say, "Child, take this to the grave."
If you made it out alive from the battle of Crete
Parents, I survived the friendly fire.
While you bombarded, I built the Roman Empire.

This man is sweet-tempered.
He can fill a whole room with nice aroma.
When others are in need of closure,
You can always count on him to take you to rosier.

In perspective of others,
They like to nitpick on his features.
His voice, his appearance, his everything.
Their behaviour is simply captious.

What I see is an angel descending from above,
A heavenly aura seemingly palpable.
With his winsome smile and his feathery wings,
His figure is outrightly unmistakable.

I love his cordial behaviour.
Whenever he talks to me,
I can’t help but release sweet laughter.
In a room filled with tenebrosity,
He can light up the room with his jubilant energy.

In the tranquility of the night,
He is the moon and stars.
In the amidst of darkness,
He offers bountiful open doors.

Life without him wouldn’t be the same.
In the darkest of times,
He’s my guide to my pride.
The only person to keep my sanity high.

I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.

is my desire to have those meaningless but oh so meaningful exchanges back and forth through the day, push your hand to taring the town red?
        I want to hold your hand
bite your flesh cause I simply can't take laying
quietly across your bare skin and control myself.
         why do you poke at my insecurities
when you're the one who's seen me raw
                                                    rare
    ­                                         and over
                                               cooked.
Where have you been?
     the dogs eaten your homework
   two lefts and a right?
       And here you are always right.
Pick your teeth with my ribs after feasting
     on reactions to your lack of reaction
              
                I'm ******* you off huh,
                good feel something beautiful
     because you've taken me on a tour of a
      side show odyssey and I hate the view
                from the passenger seat
                                        I'm mad about you,
                                        for you
                                 and this makes me hate
                                   myself.
                           the heaviness on my lungs
                 and being put on a backburner.

kiss me
don't touch me
pull me close
as you run away

                              Finely dice chives
                              sprinkle it sparsely
                             don't forget the vinegar


                can't spell sane and logic
                        with out l-u-v

He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.

Your curls have my fingers
So tight they won't let go

I could live here, hands on your head,
myself, your cargo.

Take me far away from here,
Around this great blueberry.

I'll ride high on your shoulders,
Or walk when you get wary.

At night, sleep, face up to the moon,
Your scalp set in my palms.

I'll tell you things about the stars,
my gentlemen in arms.

I go to bed each night
with your face
for reference
in my frame of mind
to discern musings of how
there is no shared
connection left
between the
dreams I have
of what could have been
over what came to pass

I mull over idealized trust
while settling into a pillow,
only to realize that it was
never anything more
than a beacon of lust

Enough
is enough,
I've had it up to here
with this ******* tragedy,
three years and counting,
filling the hollow spots
with a jagged cup
only to perpetuate
the savagery
of spilling
my own blood

When will ‘enough’
become a segue
to pass through valiantly
into new heights?
Where credence will
alleviate symptoms
of infinitely reaching for
a reason why I can't find
an alternate reality
outside of seeing your face
when I go to bed
each night

And after all this torture,
I think I might
put others on
a pedestal so high
that enough
could never be enough,
and after drowning in
my violent noise,
it seems that
in your silence
is where I will have to find
self-love