...
new moon
"just let me sleep,"
moon eaten
my absence upsets all.
Look at me, really look at me,
stare up at the belly of a loved sky,
watch fingers dipping into bowls of blood holding hope,
feeling around for a sliver,
of sweet milk,
of relief,
of anything;

new moon whispers
on the dead bodies left behind,
god sighs---
he knows;

"I am not the same"

waxing crescent
map out my wreckage,
my skeleton of poetry;
in the spines of books loved by mankind,
bury me there in a pages of flowers---
in the altitude of words;
read me with a hunger you have never known before,
over and over;
whenever it seems fit~
like the light of the moon is a cigarette.

smoking,
he's always smoking now.
god takes another drag;
he describes to me:

"You could be my bible,
you book of blood"

I can't stand smoke...

"I have no business in being your  holy snakeskin."

first quarter
I've been searching for
solid ground, solid shadows,
a solid compromise;

I wanted a little more
than ordinary love from him so I

asked him where the static began,
for me it's below my bottom left rib
and found that it was also where the spiders started too.

Time, that quiet thing
obeys god, only
because it waits for no one

it loves
unzipping the law of alchemy,
cause ink flowered in my blood again;
I should thank time
it was this saving kind of grace;
always has been

god stroked my hair this time
and said quietly:

"You see,
the saddest thing is realizing
that there's nothing more they can do for you"

waxing gibbous
Oh, where's my love?
Is it in the fever I call happiness,
is it in the sword my mama raised me to be

Is it in the way
the moon tiptoes closer
when he says my name
in that beautiful way he does

or breaks my name
over his teeth like it's just
glass apples

God doesn't even look at me
he doesn't have to;

"Do you believe in angels?"

the wreckage answers him
"not lately"

full moon
And it begins again
I watch as he just looks away
and says it's fine
it hurts

god narrows his eyes but shrugs

"Pain had other plans for you."

I breathe out raggedly;

"I guess,
if there's no key
then I'll just swallow the whole door."
...

By the time I was ready to listen to my father's counsel,
I was already haunted by mistakes I made not listening to him.

I wonder, will I only truly listen to timeless counsel,
when my own children shall ignore my own?

Why is rising from the ashes like a Phoenix
inexplicably preceded by our eventual demise?
Is failure truly a part of life,
or have we been conditioned to believe as much,
by those who wish us blissful, and sustained, ignorance?

Even if I had the answer,
would you want to hear it?
Are you even ready?

No time like the present, they all say.
Yet such a timeless, indisputable widsom slips our grasp
by the end of each day.

No time like the present, I have often heard you say,
when you'd require me, and much to my dismay.
What it is that you need of me, I wonder,
as the night swallows the sun, and ushers in the thunder.

No time like the present, I resentfully accept.
For there is no better time for you to haunt me,
than the almighty present which, to me,
is full of angst.

Don't you despise rhymes, past or future?
Acceptable, I guess, for they exist now,
as there is no time like the present.

Why do we write, really?
And where? and when? and to whom?
Does it all matter?

There's a beauty in poetry, in that, much like emotion itself,
it fills us with passion, and challenges us to explicate the abstract.

There's a beauty in attempting to unravel the mysteries of the mind,
in the form of a poem, shared across a world wide web,
of like-minded balladeers.

Why do we write, really?
I ask you to wonder what our lives would rather be
if we didn't.