Close your eyes,
And start to dream.
Let go the world,
And float downstream.

Enter the darkness,
Now start to create.
Start with the land,
Then water, now wait!

What about light?
And how 'bout it's source?
You can't live in the dark,
Unless you want to of course.

Now start placing plants.
Think of shape, colour, size.
This is your world,
Make your plants rise!

Now mess with the land.
Do what you want.
Make mountains or valleys,
This is your jaunt.

Hang up the moon,
(or two if you want),
Then throw in some stars.
This is your place to flaunt.

Remember some creatures,
Just make them weird.
Some cute or scaled,
Or some to be feared.

Now to finish it off,
It needs a ruler (that's you).
Now if you'll excuse me,
I've my own world too.

I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.

Since you've been gone
My couch doesn't smell like you anymore
Maybe it hasn't for a long while
And maybe the smell was in my head

Since you've been gone
My phone went off
That's how it was before you

Since you've been gone
Roses grew back in my garden
Leaves fell off the trees
And maybe I'm still waiting

I waited and maybe I still am
But in the meantime there's nothing I can do
But mourn the broken pieces
Try to find them all,
Lost somewhere along the way
And assemble them back together.

I maybe will always be yours
Somewhere somehow
In this world or in another

But right now
I am mine
I am no one's
I'm as free as the wind
I've broken free from everything
And I could leave right now
empty handed with no regret
or tear in my eye
Maybe alcohol will get me through this
And maybe it will **** me
But does it matter?
Because we're all gonna die

I have never written a single poem
that my lovers could understand.

In truth, all my romantic verse is simple,
self-congratulatory applause

for not falling victim
to the virus of sentiment.


I am a gifted liar.

I'm in a race with time
trying to find
what was lost
is now mine
a peace of mind.
I am free

Nothing to hide
nothing to fear
shadows fade
light is here
yet I hear
like horses galloping,
wings soaring,
and dolphins chatting
I am free

I see
but do not
dreams forgot
the thrill the rush
an escape from
night and day
I need to see
all of me
and be free

death dying gone
back again
wrong
deeper further
sound unite
flying feeling
strength and might
all of me
to see
yet I am free

space and air breathe
back to life
healthy happy
no more strife
good and bad
all of me
here to stay
I am free

dancing,
heartbeat,
melody,
rhythm,
writing,
poetry
train tracks clacking
through the rain
thunder roaring
flames like fire
lightning
thrilling
searching
finding
knowing
all of me
soon to see
what will be
I am free

like the wind
on my skin
like a sail
off to sea
I am free
I am free

I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.

For tho’ I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.