I hope they find me
Surrounded by poems that
Are yet unfinished.

he looked at me like he had never seen me before,
he looked at me like I was the first bloom of the season,
like I was the Holy Ghost every religious ******* is waiting for
like I was the creator and you were the protector and our touch was everything unseen
he looked at me through eyes unhardened
he looked at me selflessly and gracefully
he was the beginning and I was the end
and together we flowed,
endlessly

I woke up this morning with a skip in my step
an inconsistent beat vibrating my feet
coercing out the words stuck in my teeth.
I got so excited in between my coffee and log in screens
that my thoughts finally remembered their routine
of unorganized and coyly placed memories
writers block is kind of a funny thing
because its not just a wall you're standing at
while looking up and shouting for the next greatest epiphany
its more like every thought you have crashing against a metaphorical gate
and pressing you into one place until your hope and understanding starts to deflate
you see, its more like a dam
no wait, like a traffic jam
because the color red telling you to stop strobes ahead of your thoughts
and frustrations build higher and higher the longer you sit there.
concentration is essential because you don't want to skid into crashing
but instead try to look forward to floating when the tension lays low
because when your writers block lets go
and your thoughts find ease in a melodious flow
you forget about the fire to your ego
that blocked what you thought you might know

You come in broad daylight
To make love to me
To get a refreshing taste
And leave
with an unfinished story

At night
You pour yourself on me
Your sticks like fingers
Your chain like arms
Wrapping around me
Leaving
its love marks

you loved in paragraphs.
your lips, endless words,
the touch of your fingers; metaphors.
you loved me in ways a poet
desires.
your affection ran across the pages of my body
and i loved you to the point of oblivion.

For what good is it to trample something lovely?
Not so even waiting for it to wither down
Killing the joy in it that was once so lively
Forcing it in lies, obliteration, to drown.

For what good is it to contaminate, poison?
With the obloquy that your scornful lips emit
And your eyes that look with shame, devoid of reason.