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Over two years have passed since we last spoke
And I wish these two years
hadn’t spread us apart like dandelion seeds
so many words have been left unspoken
and I wonder if you ever think of me
Late at night
all the “what if’s” running wild
and I wonder if it’s even worth it
to try and get your attention
just to say
I’m sorry
 Dec 2014 Timothy Stout
ahmo
A brief, but passionate inhale.
Who would have thought,
of the autumn in her eyes?

A sweet, delicate voice.
A beautiful sound to detect.
And never forget.
And never regret*.

The stud of a nose
Her own clothes and eloquent verbose
An unheard of strength
That she shrugs off like dirt.

And she knows of Dad.
Because she has been there too.
Not just for the smell of *****,
Or for the pain of just one bruise,
But for the depth behind
A clenched fist
and the struggle for eye contact.

It was 6 AM.
In the autumn.
And things just happen.
But see,
it wasn't just a thing.
It couldn't be.
The way I held your hair
And hid it safely behind your ear.
And accepted the kiss
That my fear could not initiate myself.

It was the blue,
And the blonde.
The black of the beanie,
And the spots of the sweater.
It was the look
and the smile
and the inhale.

And then
it was the stars.
And the stone wall.
And the Boston skyline.
It was the teasing.
and the alcohol
and the spot by the river.
And it was autumn in her eyes.

It was heaven in the trembling of my knees,
and in that kick in the shin,
and in the brownie brittle,
and in the passionate kiss in the room upstairs.
It was hell in the uncertainty.

And as the time will pass,
We will attract or repel.
Naturally.
And where this ambiguity chills me to the bone,
I find autumn in her eyes.
grades do not define your intelligence
the numbers on your report card do not determine your importance
worth and grades do not correlate
your mental health is more crucial
than acing that test you have tomorrow
close your weary eyes, child
and rest for a while
I look at you and I see half-finished poems and words that don’t exist, your eyes are like indigo oceans I keep drowning in but somehow I don’t mind not being able to breathe.  I wish I knew more about why you are the way you are, what terrifies you the most about yourself, and why I find it difficult to catch my breath when you look at me as if I am a stolen daydream. You make up for a lot of things, really, like going through fourth period half asleep because last night it took me three hours to stop thinking about you. You make up for that, and everything else. You are made of electricity and good intentions stitched together with a voice that could shatter a million hearts, and I am just a lost soul wondering why I trust you with mine. And I do, I do, I trust you with my stupid old heart, and I want to memorize every single corner of yours like the back of my hand. I want to know how a heart like yours could love such a wounded one like mine, but maybe that’s what love is, sacrificing perfection for something tragically real. I look at you and I see fluctuating potential, like the morning sun peeking out behind tired gray clouds, and how sometimes that has to be enough. Ever since I met you, my heart has remembered how to beat, my hands have remembered how to hold, and you love me enough to make me forget how much I don’t love myself. Maybe you are temporary and maybe you’re an illusion, but I still cling to the hope that maybe, this is why I held on until now.
 Nov 2014 Timothy Stout
Just Melz
Sitting in your car
    Parked outside my house
You had to leave soon
        But, it was so peaceful out
You kissed me so sweetly
           deeply
Then you asked me
     I saw it coming, honestly
Yet, I was still shocked
           And more than a little terrified...
     Mine?  Yours?
Belonging to one another?
        I wasn't sure how this made me feel
     So many doubts and questions,
Running through my mind
             I don't like admitting it
But you're really a rare find
               Honest, sweet and kind
   I'm not sure I feel as strongly as you do
         Cause we both know the past I've been through
     I think I'm gonna try
            For you
But you seriously gotta make an effort too
       I don't wanna do this alone
   I know you're busy
Just pick up the phone
         Make some time for me
You want me to be your girl?
         Then you gotta be my guy
But this whole thing terrifies me
      I'm not gonna lie
I'll NEVER cheat
           I'll stay faithful and true
    But seriously,
That's what you gotta do too...
        So, what's my answer to you?
     First, I have stipulations
I'm not a girl all about big DECLARATIONS
          I'm the poet, I'll do that
     But I gotta know you're with me
          That you got my back...
    I'm not afraid to admit
                 I need attention
       If you can handle that
           And my crazy A$$
   Then I'll be **all yours
True Story.
 Nov 2014 Timothy Stout
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
and maybe i like
my coffee cold and bitter now
because as much as I hate to admit it,
it reminds me of you.
(sjb)
 Nov 2014 Timothy Stout
TAB
Plane crashes
And crashing waves
You are God of them all.

Broken glass
And broken hearts
You repair it all.

***** cloth
And ***** sinner
You wash them all clean.

What I mean is
You know.
What I'm saying is
I'll go.
I trust You.

Despite the aches and pains
And the bruises along the way.
Rest in peace to those I've lost. It's been quite a week.
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