I’ve heard it takes a lifetime to live a minute
and it takes a minute to live a lifetime.
You don’t know what you’re in until you’re in it,
and you don’t see the sun until the sunshine.
So I’ll resign to waiting in line,
wasting my time, and losing my mind.

I know when I’ve been beat,
so don’t be surprised if I retreat.
I’d rather face the music then face the heat,
rather ******* tears as they’re sweet;
as sweet as sweet defeat.

It takes only a second to start a war,
and then naturally all hell breaks loose.
Do you know which side you’re fighting for?
Did you even get to choose?
So I’ll resign to the front line,
biding my time searching for a land mine.

I know when I’ve been beat
so don’t be shocked if I move my feet
to find cover from the fire on the street.
At long last the circle is complete
and it’s as sweet as sweet defeat.

“I’ll get you and your little dog too”
it’s all I’m hearing, and it’s ringing true,
along with “what’s a poor boy to do?”
“You have a choice: red or blue”
do you dare turn reality askew?
Or take your chances and wait for lieu?

I know when I’ve been beat,
so don’t be worried if I take a seat.
I can’t win the battle and I won’t cheat,
I’ll be lamb to slaughter; made to meat
and I’ll taste as sweet as sweet defeat.

His light guides our way,
Shining on all His beloved,
Sweet. cannot be beat.

Sometimes there isn't a reason why.
Sometimes you just have to sit in the pain.
Let it wash over you like rain.

Sometimes the villain wins.
With no justice in sight.

It's hard to watch a person that hurt you.
Get everything you want.

Sometimes people are people.
With their own flaws and faults.

Some are bad.
Some are good.
Sone stand in between.

You never know which one you'll meet.
Till they show the running colours underneath.
That you wish you would have never seen.

Some goodbyes are sweet.
Wishing you well.
Others are bitter.

Leaving scars in your memory.
Sometimes just sometimes.
People are people.
They can't help who they are.

Sometimes you can try to change.
To rearrange them.

Sometimes you just can't.

You are the honey hidden in the comb;
And the fuzzy bee butts that buzz close by your ears.

You are the smell of honeysuckles;
And the candied memory of the aftertaste of its juices.

You are cheerful piano melodies, of chords that bop and swing;
And the pep when the pianist catches the rhythm.

You are all that is golden in the world.
Both soft and hidden;
And bold and salient.

Laughter sticks to my teeth,
Like taffy.
You are a carnival
Of affections;
And
I have not enjoyed sunshine in so long.

Sweet Sixteen Years

<••>

had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,

2024 - 2008 ‎ = 16

yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:

She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)

a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain

that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary

there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink

for the record:

she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five

so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on

which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem

The hands on the clock are slender,
Like her fingers,
Who used to weave through mine.

Soft was her voice,
It could grace you like an ocean breeze,
Or it could work like a hurricane,
Make you wish you never left shore.

This new winter snow,
The color of her skin.
Thin as her kiss,
Leaving me warmer than I was before.
These days I find myself missing it more and more.

But she didn't leave,
It was I,
I had to return home,
She didn't beg me to stay, she knew I couldn't.

But I know,
Someday we will find each other again,
And in time, I will remember her kiss.

Words melt in the walls
Covered in paintings
Made of you
Made of me
Yours are beautiful
Careful strokes
Each of such precise yet casual calmness
The motion of your hands
They swing and move in such ways of a ballerina
Ones of a mother easing her child to a deep sleep
They recreate a sky that took so many billions
To become one of which it is now
You bring it into your own reality within moments
The lovely lights glow on a cotton canvas
Making music with the latex
darkening what's surrounding it
But me?
Mine are ugly
I leave rotting flesh in the daylight
Spred the shine of blood and paste the teeth of past fighters, veterans
They form the sight of ****** tires leaving streaks on asphalt
The animals that peel off roads, screaming with one last breath
in through your nose, out through your mouth
I'll hold you close and speak
"Let it melt in your mind"
"spit it out and light it up"
lets do it
together
we can burn the truth
Then we can take the melted remains
And make a balanced gallery
A museum made for 2