I feel like there is rocks in my aorta
There is sediment blocking my capillaries
There is pebbles filling my lungs
There is sand irritating my eyes
There is gravel eroding up my esophagus
There is a landslide coming out of my mouth
There is an earthquake rattling my stomach
There is a boulder weighing down my mind
There is a hole in me no mountain can fill

If rocks could fall like water
Then we would all be far less bruised
As our stones, our burdens, would roll off
Or else absorb into our skin
If only to be processed out again
We would not carry the visible marks
Of an unkind world
And would stay outwardly placid
And inwardly concealed  
But perhaps then the danger would lie
In the poisoning of our skin
As we absorb the lies and pain
Perhaps while we would cease
To present our story
Our nightmares would appear through touch
As our skin would become toxic from pain
And would burn all it contacted
And so easy it would be then
To isolate in desolate corners
So we could not be harmed --
So we could do no harm

-.-.-

So much better it is
To be to be bruised
Rather than to be alone

I went about my day
with my intestines and stomach
so tight
I had swallowed rocks
boulders
exhausted
shaking
nauseous
went home early
there was no way I could function
so I used the rocks
to drown myself
in a bottle

There is that pretty Rock Of Suicide                                                                          That is located behind our eyes and                                                                            Behind our ears in this world ...                                                                                    Behind mountains and those plains ,                                                                           There are unseen and invisible worlds                                                                             We always keep them in our minds ...                                                                        From that side , where that Rock Of                                                                                 Suicide is located , we can see only                                                                                  A few chains of mountains that overlook                                                                        On many directions here and there ....                                                                        We only guess that there are things                                                                              Bewilder us with their invisible sights ...                                                                       We love to see all kinds of hard rocks                                                                           In all directions and in the opposite                                                                              Directions anytime,anywhere,and                                                                                Everywhere on the surface of our planet ...

You are
The whispering of the sea
Crashing anger at violent shores-
Lapping lovingly at lonely rocks.

You are
The affectionate bite,
And pressed tooth on lip. A brutish
But gentle expression of passion.

You are
The soft murmur of uncertainty,
Rustling against soft skin-
A (lost) exhale of heaving breath.

*Your skin and flesh and bones
Are I think not made of
All the same stuff as mine.

   You are water; you're iron;
   You are whistling wind.
   You're the purest sin
   In which I've ever sunk.

Take
me
away
with
a
well
tuned tale
of
tiny twigs twitching
to the
sweet, soothing sounds
of
swaying songbirds set seaward
to
shores
that
reach rocks rolled
upward
and
under undying undertones
of
washed, wayward welks woven with
the
wind
and
waves whispering water's ways
to the tune
of
twitching twigs
and the
sweet, soothing sounds
of
songbirds
taking
me
away
with
a
well
tuned tale.

How fickle is the word love.
That word can be murmured, screamed and written as easily as the first line of this poem.
Is love obsolete, or is that word unable to express the grandeur of this emotion.
As my body over heats and my chest explodes within, it becomes clear.
Love is not enough.
It is too simplistic for that dark creature that lives in an attractive misty material.
Rose quarts, ruby, raw amber.
Amber as old as time, buried for years,  deserted and left to tarnish and become cold.
Given a hand to hold its rough body and smooth its uneven and faded exterior, this can reveal missing pieces of time and beauty that renders one breathless.
You are my anber