I wish to live, but in turn, learn to die.
When she longs to laugh, and somehow,

I cry –

So brewed the complacent,
Floating-waking dreams,
Withering with the wind,
And against it my screams.

She signs in the
Rain
So that I may see –
Drizzled words, despots and
Defiance, never defeat.

     And

She cries in the
Rain
So that I may never see –
What could never be cured, be
Culled; our calamity.

     And

I walk on in the
Rain
So that I may never learn how to –
Fix, never learn to forgive,
Most certainly, to forget.

     And

It’s just that simple in the
Rain,
Sign, cry or walk –
We become disposable,
And like chalk on sidewalks,

          We all wash away.

It’s all theater
I’m just behind closed curtains
That’s probably why no one looks
The fabric forcefields let me perfect my routine though
I certainly have an array of props to play with
A little cardboard box I call home
My reliable, evergreen jacket that kinda looks like swiss cheese
Oh, and a Styrofoam cup to collect my keep
My reward for tonight’s performance

Are they all in on the act?
Pretending that I don’t exist just for fun?

I must say, this new crowd is pretty **** good
Even the little ones get in on the charade
“Mommy, daddy, look at that ma-“
The clutching and quickened paces tell me those young talents might get cut
What a shame

I remember when my boss hit the line “you’re fired!” with such conviction
I was **** well impressed
When I said I couldn’t pay last week’s rent,
my landlord must have been practicing that disgusted look for hours

I like this new production, though, so it’s all good
Sure, the nights get a bit chilly and the days can be musty
but it’s all just show business
I sleep happily knowing this lifestyle is just a big act
It’s all theater

**….right?

I'm just a fool who
Would travel with monsters to
Learn to tame the beasts

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

If platonic marriages were a thing,
we'd have 5 dogs .

.

Like a tin roof

she shelters
my heart

for I know she
is near

when I hear the rain

I said I'd wait a thousand years
A thousand years I've waited
The fragile seeds of hope I've hewn
Have blossomed forth-
And faded.

The span of time, the falling sand
That journeys down the glass
Has shivered down to rest against
The last wish of the past

Words I've writ of you by night
Have lightened now by day
Would that I could read them now
I'd not hear what they say.

Truthfully, the beauty of a newly conjured flame
Undeniably must end
When met with winter rain.