Swat the butterflies whose wings
Decieve the poem and inscribes
Its colored brilliance on gilded flights;
There is no grace to his clunky
Flying and brings repetitive hooplah
To the natural poem and steals
Its personable voice.

Every language has a flow of poetry
Whose inner soul derives of the
Course of one's harmony and rhythm,
And using a star of butterflies in every
Poem brings about the very sameness
We all suffer from daily.

See the beauty in a vulture
Whose glide is magnificent
Spreading his wings in silent
Flight above rolling hills.

His beauty is not that of the
Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably
Graceful and finding its natural
Poetic flow is deeper still.

Polychromatic lovers-
I open a window,
Open wide toward radiance
That descends into the primitive
Depths of a fiery spirit,
There upon a mural splendid
I did see like into dreams
With incomprehensible clarity....
Windows like lights reflecting moons
And daily the gaze fills the abyss
Open wide toward uncertainty
And hallucinating destinies,
Window, open window,
Crystalline glass of the soul.

I walk through campus wearing
black leggings and those faded, leather
boots. I’m even wearing an
infinity scarf I bought full price at
Anthropologie and a pair of tiger-striped
cat eye sunglasses. ****, I look good.

On top of it, I’m smoking a Parliament
menthol, my red-lined lips whipping
smoke into the dead air, creating
a grey cloud that some would call cancerous and
others, ****.

But no one notices me, and, candidly, I
am okay with that because I notice me, and
I am a big red dance button that demands to
be pushed. So, I push myself and
groove down the brown brick road all the way
to classroom 114 in the science building.

the baby was found, after the fire, alive and well in the oven.  god showed his face until, again, the world made him hungry.  at the time, the painter of babies was a baby herself.  her brother had been dropped long ago by a man reaching for a foul ball.  

the sweet tooth’s bible was putting blood on a napkin.  

you want grief that is a seashell of grief.

the grass has covered your stone
such a sad thing to be hidden
though just a name
it has rained for several days
and the nights stay warm
others are here
and they too mourn
silently
on bent knee
to tend to theirs

I want to tell them about you
I want them to see your name
once again unveiled
such a sad thing to be hidden
one as beautiful as you
quiet heart
in a loud world

the Sun now hides
as dark clouds open
tears and drops of rain
fall as one
the wind stirs
and I see you in my thoughts
you are not forgotten

you do a good job of blocking things out.
you keep good things going through my head.
you block out the voices all around.
so thanks headphones, youre getting me through stuff.