Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.

Paper casted with doubts on intrepid limbs,
Bleak as the innocent page is scribed black,
For all crowned hands have writ but whim,
To this, their epitaphs reign what pages lack.

.
Empty paper swaddles the wanting babes,
Pages crying fill me with thoughts so clean
And light comes down exposing low sages,
Though soiled hands bleed virginal to deem.

If I were to compare you to food
you would be ice cream
I can't eat ice cream
wild orange ice cream
or passion fruit and mango
exotic and forbidden

If I were to compare you to music
it would be violin Brahms
you look like Joshua Bell, you know
The sweetest music I've heard,
though you certainly don't calm me

If I were to compare you to flora,
You would be orange and purple roses
excitement and enchantment
love at first sight

If I were to compare my affections to reality
they would only inhabit a book
an uninspired novel
*which I should put down right away

I want to look in the mirror and get butterflies
I want to become my own lover’s eyes

its so strange that I am the person who knows me best
and we still haven’t fallen in love yet

Looking at myself at arms length I can honestly say
I know your November birthday
and the way the Beatles make you twist and shout
I know your favorite books from cover to cover,
the magical mysteries you couldn’t live without
You hate monkeys, oranges and lies
you love horses, strawberries and quirks
you paint your eyelids a light silver every morning
just to hide the places that have so often hurt
I feel your every tear graze my eternally rosy cheeks
I know that Sunday mornings are the best parts of your weeks
I know what you love and I know what you need,
why won’t you take a chance on loving me?

Small Napoleons  .  .  .
Deep thoughts of narcissists,                                                     ­   
  .  .  .  I, ME, love me, ME!

A private party
Etudes
People around me
Vanity and beauty
From where I sat
A glow of hope
In an ashen sky
Abandoned arguments
Reviews and dismal news
Changing moods
Pauses for profanity
Shadows and reality
Simulacrums
Patented predictions
Solemnity and sorrow
Corpses for the coroner
Silence.

When the heart strives to love
Then it grows weary in its try
For love comes to it naturally
Knowing its feeble feet

But when love seeks the heart
Her ***** surrenders to it
It stands still in its fervent beats
And embraces love with a natural feat

Therefore be calm, tender heart, be calm
Chase not the chaser with frail strides
But be still and resist its charm
Beckon to its pace with your rhythm so sweet

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.

"She thinks way too highly of herself" they say, laughing at another picture that has been uploaded.
But what's so wrong with loving the body you're in?

"He's so up himself" they moan, criticising a tweet about his morning work out.
But what's so wrong with working to become the person you want to be?

"She thinks she's sooo amazing" they laugh, mimicking the voice of a girl who performed in the school talent show.
But what's so wrong with being proud of something you're good at?

"It's so sad, she was so beautiful" they cry, scrolling through the pictures of a girl who was found 2 days earlier, hanging from her bedroom ceiling with a rope around her neck.
But what's so wrong with destroying yourself if it's oh so "vain" to appreciate who you are?

Stop.
It's okay to love who you are.
It's okay to change to become someone you're proud of.
It's okay to flaunt the parts of you that make you smile.
It's not okay to laugh at, taunt, tease, mimic and bully those who appreciate themselves,
but if you do,
don't you dare think it's okay to weep when someone takes their own life because maybe,
just maybe,
if you didn't mock them and instead told them:
"It's okay"
they might still be here,
loving themselves,
rather than sleeping six feet under.