The first time around,
We didn't plan,
We talked in tomorrows,
Because we knew it would end.

Yet on our second go,
We planned it all out,
Now we talk in years,
Because I only have to wait seven more,
Before I can put a ring on your pretty finger,
Though for now that's fantasy.

She wants to read my personals,
The ones I don't ever post.
All the dusty notebooks,
All the hard years and burning memories.
You can read them bb,
But only if you are ready,
To learn history hurts.

is it bad i wish you suffering
because it means you're alive

we promised moonlight
we promised beach

but i float down the shore alone
my feet yet to touch ocean floor

as your dust settles back into the stars
the tide keeps pulling away
i see the rippled glass of the sand

a face shaped wildly by the sunlight you never got to see
a distorted image of me

i imagine you lived a hundred thousand years just to believe the line wasn't cut short

i imagine you lived a hundred thousand years just to believe the line wasn't cut short

in the shells i pick up, are lies
and i fill my mouth with all these little shells

you lived a hundred thousand years
you lived enough to see
you know me, even now
and your dust wont settle in the stars

it'll form in a ghost in my backyard

A poem each day,
Thirty a month.
Then if a chapter of poems has, 30, 28, 31,
Soon you'll read a chapter a month.
And if a book,
Is twelve chapters dear.
Soon you'll be reading a book,
Each and every year.

From all these years questioning why I am alone?  Now I can simply answer, it was a choice I made that never made sense since until I see I was behind all closed doors.

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

After years of tears
Posing as pointless pity
Dug despair a grave