In the catacombs
of an ancient burial site
guided by stars and the moon's pale light.
Lies the starlit angels tomb
In the gloom of a game of chess.
Deaths endgame
Guided them all to rest
Death and the devil played
Death always wins
His Graveyard game
They played for the souls of the angels
But the devil lost
Death's price was their souls
The devil was frozen in the frost of a frozen hell
To return one day to the earth
Under a different guise.

we're not quite that far in our relationship just yet
but sometimes i roll over and whisper,
"i kind of really love you—just a bit."

i wonder if it’d be cold against my neck
or if it’d be hot, or if i’d have to heat it just to be sure.
i wonder if it’d be as comfortable as sleeping,
but nothing’s as comfortable as sleeping:
as dreaming, as breathing, as thinking of being—
as being nonliving and no longer breathing.
so i doubt i’ll ever hang myself because to be fair,
the dead can breathe no air.

I’ve got a little bird sleeping on my chest –

Breathing innocence,
Abandoned and prior pathos.

I’ve got a little bird sleeping on my chest –

Found, was her nest, but
Lost, was the feather who’d brought her.

I’ve got a little bird sleeping on my chest –

An ear nigh my heart,
And a heart I’d thought dead.

I’ve got a little bird sleeping on my chest –

And so, let the world be round,
And so let the world be perfect.

I’ve got a little bird sleeping on my chest.

While sleeping in my bed
Rhymes escape my head.
I maunder them around
Then write them down
And publish them instead.

That is, those worth keeping
That I write while sleeping
That often turn out to be
Happily approved by me.
A poetic parrot peeping.

An internal rhyming thing.
Almost an eternal ping
That runs through my brain
There to sometimes remain
And bubble back upon rising.

Sometimes it wakes me up
And I brew myself a quick cup
Because at that time
In search of a rhyme
That goes with boxer pup or buttercup.

I haven’t made a dime from this
My middle-of-the-night muse’s kiss.
I just gleefully scribble
And sometimes I giggle
No matter it’s a hit or a miss.

Far be it from me to complain.
For so many poems remain
That turn out terrific
That I’m labelled prolific.
Either that, or poetically insane.

Homework, or battling demons?
School, or exploring abandoned houses?
People that lie to you, or people you can trust?
Crying yourself to sleep, or midnight adventures?
Sleeping alone, or cuddling until you fall asleep in their arms?
Left in silence falling into a spiral of negativity, or so much fun that you forget all the bad?

But the real question is:

The real world, or the world inside your head?

*I know which I would choose...

buzz buzz* my phone goes off
3:02 am on the clock.
It's you agian.
Every night
At the same time
With the same message
Then a tap tap tap at my window.
I freeze.
buzz buzz "Please, let me in"
I text back "no"
tap tap tap
This time a voice
"Let me in."
I'm frozen.
3:04 am.
He's gone.
He'll be back
He always comes back.