bored
restless
drugged with thoughts
overwhelmed by contradictions
there's no peace for me
spiritually entangled
from your distance
looking for an ancestral relief
or maybe .. carnal?

black, like the sound of silence.
heavy, like the emptiness of your absence.
salty, like guilt.
impervious, like the road to reach you.
long, like the echo of your memory.
every single night,
colorless.

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

There's a lot of hate in America
And a lot of ignorance as well

But there are also Seattle ferryboats
And the bar called Kells

And my brother Ryan
And books in library shelves

Some of them speak secretly
Of holy hidden eleves

Oxford crosses the water
To say: things may go well!

If love can be withdrawn
It never was

My love for you is not a gift
    To you
      It is a gift
        To me

So maybe it isn't me
I live my boring, insignificant life

Separated from my children
Separated from my wife

An ignorant, violent country
Little beauty, lots of guns

But still, the deer near the church
And near the deer: Born to Run!