i don't quite know
how possible it
is to psychoanalyze yourself
to figure out the tender reasons
why you place people so
delicately on your plate
making sure the mashed potato
man and baby corned tooth
woman don't touch
like sticking a fork in
yourself trying to
pull out how she
made you feel
in 6 words or less
the language gettting
muddled like word salad
that only you can understand
eating and loving
becoming synonymous
like you asking me if
i (still) love you
and drowning my
chicken in the fiercest
bbq sauce
it's fleshy white
skin
crying out like
a blemish
on history with
no take-backs
like using
every condiment
and coping mechanism
trying to cleanse
my pallete of
you

time
was purely a four-letter concept with you

you made hours alone
discussing the universe and its secrets
feel like fleeting minutes

a year passed by
in an ephemeral glance

reality completely deliquesced
with the touch of your lips
and your love was marked as transitory

                                                     ­  ...but those eyes were infinite


x.

As the chisel strikes the marble, so the psyche shapes the man.
Perfect in his alabaster, carving self from his own hands.
And once honed, his craft can grow by drafting bodies made of stone
Sourced from quarries free of worry, something he can call his own.

If he wishes to ascend beyond his animal desires,
He must grow a patience cold enough to ***** the raging fires
Burning hot against his skin and so within his weary soul,
For his enemy resides in him, and stokes the glowing coals.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

With Poe-try you can surely
get your Words' worth
So many words are waiting
like a Wolfe at your door,
for their Cummings into being.

If you listen, they Pound
upon your brain
They Lamb-aste your viscera,
making you Nash your teeth.
They create a Millay in your head.
So many shapes, so many Hughes

Lusting for Moore they Lear
at you when you least expect.
Look back at them!

Like Frost upon the windowpane
they write themselves,
then, when all is said and Donne
melt away too soon.

Grasp them when you can.
Put them in a Rowe
Taylor them to your muse,
use your Whit, man !

"Would you like to buy a shoe?"

My words ring around the school yard.
Laughter bounces back to me.

The only laugh I focus on is yours.
A simple joke allows me to admire that soft smile of yours.

Our pupils dilate, did I ever tell you how stunning your blue eyes are?
I'd been speaking to you for quite some time, but time seemed to stop in that one moment.

The first time I actually said something to you in person.

I'll never forget that moment, despite the fact that a wall of sharp roses stands between us.
I hope you haven't forgotten it either.

Zombies are gross, dead, smelly, and evil.

But...

Zombies are not gross, or dead, or smelly, or evil.

They are us.