To it, I've never been.
but I've dreamed of a place where everything
is coated in corn and comfort.
Wished the past had taken me,
can't help but feel it was about my skin.
Cactus candy and cowboy boots.
Zydeco and haunted hotels.
The voodoo Frank sang about in the end.
The horns sound the streets.
Close curtains, be discreet.
Encircle the barest neck,
with colorful beads.
His family reunions
made me realize I'm on my own.
Until I met a prettier soul.
I don't kiss frogs for love.
I forget the ease in slime.
and let the grease define
an unhealthy outlook.
Sip another lime or a sour.
A ginger begs the hour.
Lonely never leaves,
but warmth is a soco shower.

Ask me once again.
Maybe the answer will be different.
Maybe I've grown tired of confirmation.
Maybe I've tried too hard for too long.
Proving a truth that won't be believed.
I fear for a future where all there is
is your constant questions.
And I am lost in constant answers.
Is that a hope worth saving?
You are a soul who is waiting
for a reason to point and shout
that you knew it all along.
Maybe you like to wallow.
Maybe it'll make a good EP.
Maybe I'm just a stepping stone
in your melancholic alcoholism.
I could be just a bottle
held to feel empty
drained of sparkling juice
and then filled up with doubt ****
to sprinkle amongst familiar crowds
or the saddest "I told you so."
Maybe I'm thicker than that.
Maybe you've spread yourself too thin.
Maybe I'm ready to let go
of your minimal digital sins.
I tell my self this one thing
over and over,
and hold the repetition hostage.
Like I do your constant questions.
"forgiveness is
don't suppress.
just forget.
let go of all regrets.
yours and his.
even if you are the only one
who is asked again.
you are the hope worth saving.
nothing more.
nothing less."
So ask me once again,
maybe the answer won't be given.

A sharp pain
origins unknown
surprise in the disguise
of keeping it cool
am I to die from this?
I look to you for comfort
the reality of us in a dream like state
a fear that it will all go away
disbelief in your eyes
an incredulous smile
dying to escape
the lips I hold dear
something about your face was cold
this is all too familiar
and the fear reached a point
I just could not take
could not keep my heart
safely in place
it leapt in my chest
at the sight of that face
and the sharp pain came tenfold
pinned me down to your bed
woke up groggy
pain faded
fear instilled
wish to stay frozen
to have just been killed
I am alright
body is better
mind is in trauma
wish my heart was a feather
so I left it in your bed
tortured and tethered

Summertime sands scorch in between our bare toes,
the waves soak them cold and moist like a dog nose.
Let's build a strange castle in the shape of a heart.
Adore it, attempt to perfect it, pose for pictures.
We like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
If we press too hard, it crumbles, and we have to fix it better.
But we like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
We press too hard, it crumbles, and we can't fix it better.
It's getting late, the sun is low, the breeze chills our bones.
Tide is climbing back to us, and we've got to go home.
We've left our sweaters with our mothers
who disappeared like our shoes.
Pygmalions sans Venus blessing,
making love building blues.

Sit on the couch,
where comfort lies.
Watch the light leak in true,
past the gathered shades.
Hold hands with quiet,
the untouched acoustic
you don't know how to play.
That's alright.
Don't
stop
writing.
Listen to the hollow sound
of distant drivers speeding off.
Play with your fingers,
that fumble with your pen.
Draw circles around your favorite,
lines and alliterations and
spell your name differently.
That one's cool.
Don't
stop
writing.
Forget yesterday's whispers,
that became unclear.
Cut last nights losses,
your hands are still here.
Revere the reminder that
morning solitude does not
have to be sad.
Don't
stop
writing.

"Don't try too hard."
Beloved mantra for today's people
who are so scared to be disrobed.
What ugliness are they hiding?
When there is a chance of failure,
to try is to be naked.
I forget this memo occasionally.
I'm the one who makes passionate love
to my attempts, embracing ******,
and this, sometimes, I come to regret.
But there are times when
my results are beautiful,
and worth every inch of shame ridden.

In class,
all I wanted to do was to go home
to write poetry.

Now,
I sit here, done with the lectures,
but I've only written notes.