is what you left me
not important enough to be named
no reason, no plot
no closure

Elusive eyes,
Hold my gaze,
Look me over
A little slower.

Entwined in rich
Belonging,
Moonflower vines
Blooming,
Follow their DNA twist.

Seductive eyes,
Follow my gaze.
Hold me slower,
Just a little longer.

when sitting at your desk
you experience hypesthesia
from being to statuesque
it's called paresthesia

don't want to swear
by yelling out bollix
take it out with blare
or a string called grawlix

do you have that tickling
feeling on your niddick
don't know that christening
it's your nape to be specific

going into winter sun
that soft warm felicity
experienced by everyone
that is called apricity

there is a method to my madness
                                                  i admit
      it may seem
                                            a
                             w
                                           r

                                                         y

Never knowing
Did I make the right choice
Wind ever blowing
Birds singing in a familiar voice
Too many choices
Which path should I follow
The voices, too many voices
They're leaving me hollow
Did I speak the right words
Move in just the right way
I'm just trying to save the world
Don't mind me
I am crazy by the way
Neverending
Did I make the right choice

If ever a word I would be labeled with,
Untitled would be perfect.
Feeling ever so entitled to my uninspired opinions
Can my name be considered my title
when all its ever been used for is to call out,
is that what a title is?
Have I been mistitled all my years,
or does the title not define the person?
People define you by your title either way,
judging a book by its cover,
judging a person by their title,
judging a poem by the author.

the phone turns yellowy orange,
low power mode,
have fallen below
the 10% threshold,
we both drowsy,
yet competitively locked-into
separate screen servitude

she notices,
I don't,
she says,
"you need a charge"

god, she's so correct,
our mutualizing power is
fastly slow draining

this we both
know~notice,
and neither
says nada~nothing

we,
both poets in our way,
acutely aware
of the power of metaphor,
and she knows
that I know,
I noticed
what just went unspoken*

>an untitled poem<