Man, this Haiku *****.

It's not going anywhere,

It barely made sense.

when i was younger
i was scared
that everyone around me
was actually a robot
and maybe i was right
because it seems to me
that i am the only one
with any common sense
so why are we still calling it
"common sense"?

It is in love that this world makes sense
It is in love, this life’s essence
My soul mate, O my love, my friend
Together our lives now securely blend

We are together in our joys and grief
In this journey of meadows and of peaks
O soul mate, what a mystery unknown
To us that in this deeper love is shown

I searched your face for words
as you drummed softly on my knee.
Poetry hidden within your pores.
paints through my mind a melody.

A kiss in the darkness to a new year.
I close my eyes and listen to the beat.
Vibrating colors I see, feel or do I hear?
Inspires me - create something for the Lord:

To see, feel, hear, taste and smell so clear
I give thanks for the way Jesus restores
with blessings, lessons, senses and love so near
Heavenly rewards I will never afford.

your silhouette is a scene of Christ’s creativity.
Those rhythms show sensations that He’s in motion  
your heart-beat sounds of His life giving power.
your lips taste like the sweetness of answered prayers.

I smell His provisions and it is quiet for a moment.
...You're just a man...
But, you make me want to love God more fiercely.
Feelings are fickle compared to Christ, so consistent.

He’s the reasons we’re here, like this.
We may run off time.
He will be the reason when we’re gone.
OH dear, I may run out of sense and rhymes.

His love will remain.

Waking to feel the weight of the void
you left when you left me behind.
Searching restlessly for any remaining
sense of you in these god forsaken sheets.
Plowing mindlessly through the memories
scorched into my mind - branded forever yours.
Will there be an ever after?

All I want to do is be.
To live as close as I can to free,
and know what it's like to taste, smell, hear and see,
and to touch things that live, like a bird in a tree.
But they are not only birds, things that live and int'rest me,
things that are alive come from the land, air, and sea.
To say one form of life is the best, would be a travesty,
For what can make a bird more alive than a bee?
I draw great joy and comfort from life's diversity,
but not only in difference, is founded my glee.
There are things the same in lifeforms, from elephant to flea,
like how we rush to please our instincts, so compulsively.
But unlike the lustful wants of others, humble is my plea,
to pass this genuine love for life from my own, on to thee.

I want me and thee to be free to see an end to travesty and plea that adversity flee, for we to love compulsively and treasure our diversity, live a life so full of glee, that it will suffice to just be.

My sense of self
is defined
by what I eat
what happens afterwards
and by the scars on my skin
and on my heart
that I was told would heal,
but were meant to bleed,
and by the way you hold me
closely
like I am your answer,
and the fact that I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend that I have none left for myself,
but I seem to have an abundance for you.
My sense of self is defined
by the whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs that surround me
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
When the sun sets behind the horizon
cuts through the sky and fades
into starlight and haze
I inhale twilight
and exhale tranquility.
Late night loaded plates
and bathroom trips
early morning cigarettes
and paper cups of caffeine
more sugar than coffee.
Afternoon poetry and photographs
smiles and laughs
followed by midnight bloodshed
and silence,
by my recovery.
My sense of self is defined by
what I love
and by who loves me
by the words and stomach acid
that roll off my tongue
and the heave of my chest
during laughter and after dinner,
by the tears shed by my eyes
and my skin,
the way that I bury my face in your chest,
the toxicity and twilight
that I inhale
the smoke, vapour, tranquility
that I exhale
the popping of my spine
and of alcohol bottles
the hiss of a pipe
and the way they say my dreams
go up in smoke,
I say the smoke spells in the air
the words of my future novels
and poems.