Fear starts to creep in,
My heart makes a sound, "BA-DUM, BA-DUM."
Then I remind myself of the goodness of God,
I fell asleep, the fear is gone.

we were speeding down the highway
and there’s gasoline seeping out of my heart
and being set on fire
by all the boys i’ve loved before.

ignite me i’d beg
but once they were done
they never bothered to put the fire out.

the side of my car is crushed
but my heart is still on fire,
begging for someone to smother the flames.

to pay for the damage.
the therapy.
the removal of the emptiness in my heart.
to pay for a touch, a quick one that still lingers
and one i can still yearn for.

i’d crawl for the fire extinguisher
while breakup songs screams lyrics
in the back of my mind
and then i'd notice that my hands are slippery
but i’m not sure if the color is black or red
but i know it’s from you.

i am fueled on anger and love
while you drive away in your father’s truck
the one we used to sit and daydream
and tell secrets that rolled off of our tongues
like the way your tires are rolling away from the crime scene.

fast, effortless, and natural.

this was supposed to happen you’d say soothing me
and my burning heart and bloodshot eyes.
not even the airbags hit harder than those five words you swore to me.

you’re driving away as the extinguisher stumbles
out of my oiled-covered hands
while the memories of us replay in my mind
and i notice how the skid marks on the street
paint a messy picture of us.

you drove away fast, effortlessly, and naturally.

this was supposed to happen.
this was supposed to happen.
this was supposed to happen.

i can’t tell if my heart is black or red or blue
but i know it’s from you.

Someone once told me;
"Writing is a lonely experience"
It really is
No one sees you toiling away at night
Fighting the demon of anti life
as he tries to make you end it all
No one sees how much thought you put into one word
As you alight your tired mind trying to predict how this will impact your story
No one sees your many hours of work tearing away at research while fighting the demon of madness
No one sees your dreams and aspiration to be the best
And when they do you become a golden rag
Used to clean the fat cats dark mouth
No one sees your endless night trying to organise your ideas into fantastic world and when they do they link it to something unrelated
No one sees how you slowly lose yourself to the unrhythmic assonance associated with the unrelated
No one sees just what you're trying to portray as they have to interpret their own meaning
No one hears the click-clack of the keyboard that slowly hypnotize you into oblivion
And if you finally finish you hate it

It's a different
day and age now.
I used to write my
poetry on scraps of
paper or napkins,
paper sacks, whatever
was handy.
One time, I wrote
a poem
on a paper plate--around in
a circle.
I get dizzy thinking about it.
They always got lost, or beer
spilled on them.
My girlfriend blew her
nose on a sonnet.

Now, I keep all my
poetry and short stories on
the computer.
A file for this.
A folder for that.
I have to use a password, and
PIN.
It has to be something important to
me or I will forget it.
Lower case.
Upper case.
Symbols.
Numbers.
It's enough to drive me
batty.
Actually, it's a short putt.
Summer is coming soon, so I
thought some golf humor would
be appropriate.

The things that used to be
important to me aren't anymore.
*****.
Drugs.
Having a woman around
constantly.
I like to think I've gained some
wisdom with age.

Passwords, ugh!
I can't tell you what's important
to me now.
You might hack into my
computer and steal all my
pretty posey.

To all my never-finished poems,
don't think you are of less worth,
because I gave up on you,
I couldn’t keep writing,
not because I didn’t care,
but because,
there wasn't more to say.

To all my never-finished poems,
you carry so many thoughts of mine,
so many ideas that once seemed great.
So much pain, because I didn't know,
what I was supposed to write,
so the best thing to do,
was to let go.

Maybe that's how you are meant to be,
just a concept, never completed.
Perhaps that's just the way it is,
I can't force you,
can't force a poem.

In the garden of love ,
she chose a flower with sharpest thorns.
It hurt her but why did she still hold on?

She said," it's just like my incomplete poem, my heart's darkest verse."
"Pain makes it beautiful , forever stuck in
this traverse."