My love
Is a poem translated  
Meaningless

Between the lines
It germinated
And bloomed
And floundered
In the memory of
The fallen flower


Wounded seriously
Fighting
With the insects
Buried themselves
Between the petals
My poem
Now
Is a morsel of
Crumbled words

Translated by the unknowns
With the pen
Filled with poison
This fallen poem itself
Is my love.

Please don't leave me alone
with all of my thoughts.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay."

"Are you really?"*

                 ...

And I am left speechless.

I'm working on trying to maintain
a sense of tranquility
my diary
is filled with spontaneous arguments
and I am attempting to understand
just what makes it real
and at the beginning, it is mostly a reflection
on being an artist
but then later
it is something else
entirely
people come, people go
some grow young, some grow cold
Tom Petty
was a visionary

Touch me
Love me, or at least tell me you do
Lie to me
And let me disappear
In this moment  
Craving the touch of a stranger
In the night
Pain, with pleasure as my relief
I know I'm mistaken
But I need him to numb me
Numb me enough to get through my days
Because this shallow sting will remain
And I will bear the stains
Of a secret lover
Who I will only be there for, in the sheets
And him, for me
In the night
Returning to the cold of mine
Oh, how bittersweet
This shall be
Love me, In The Night