I've never been one for worshiping
yet I say your name like a prayer
to love you is akin to believing
to love you has never been fair
because I've never been very patient
but for you, I'd be a saint
my heart has never wanted containment
yet you hold the key to the cage
I've yet to be called selfless
but I would sell all my possessions
to talk with you for a second
before I ascend to some kind of heavens
I don't believe in cosmic interaction
but by some higher decree
I've succumbed to all attraction
and pledge myself to thee
And maybe my honesty is brutal
but I love you just as hard
even putting it into words is futile
without you, my soul would be charred
you have become my enchantment
my pre-modern obsession
I utter I love you in a chant, and
would stake my life for your protection
So yes, I'm not a believer in most things Kismet
but for you, my love, I find myself wholly in it.

My house smells like banana bread
I made it before shutting down
With just enough energy summoned
I watched the top turn brown
I focused my mind on being numb and
lied when I said I'd been fed
because all anyone notices is
My house smells like banana bread

Sometimes, right before I drift
into a melancholy sleep
After my tea and nostalgia
Before I succumb
to the depths of my dreams
I imagine you gazing into my soul
Zipping open my skin
Cracking a door in my ribs
Just to caress my ****** heart
Sometimes I wish
you would fall asleep on my chest
Match my heartbeat
to your circadian rhythm
And I’d create a playlist to our tempo
Sometimes I think about your warmth
And imagine setting my thermostat
To feel constantly at ease
Or I think of your lips
as rose petals
And make a note
To go to the market for a bouquet
Sometimes I let a tear
Slip down my cheek
And see you
Swimming in my ocean
Bathing in my sorrow
Making me clean
Sometimes I think of you
When the darkness
Engulfs my room
And imagine it’s your
Morning coffee, black
Gliding down my throat
Sometimes, as the colors
Enter my eyelids
And the film reel starts to play
I picture you at the projector
Guiding me into slumber
Molding my mind to be yours

If there was a fire in the kitchen,
You started when I slept
If your eyes were grief-stricken
I'd hold you as you wept
If the orange singed my skin
And you were holding the match
I would take care of your sin
And let you disattatch
If my lungs became cloudy
And your makeup turned grey
I’d profess my love loudly
And let you fade away
If there was a fire in the kitchen,
And you wanted me to burn
I would only save our vision
And let you go in return

The poppy fields, with their vibrant red bodies
And velvet black eyes, peer at the sky.
Liquid light, melts
Sand falling
Off the edge of the horizon
Scarlet and merigold,
poppies and sun,
The ideal backdrop for his return
He stands stagnant, perched on top of the hill, arms spread wide,
As tiny toes trample up the flaming ridge.
He drops his duffel, green for the badge he served,
Into the meadow.
Praying its memories sink into the rich soil.
They tackle him, embrace him in love.
Forcing him to the ground
Shoving bliss down his throat.
He holds them tight.
Tears blur his vision,
As a dandelion dress
Glides towards him.
She floats above the red, a bumblebee fertilizing the poppies.
Her pecan locks dancing behind her in the wind.
He sees the ring, the one he gave her,
Ensnared around her fourth finger.
She bends down,
Gracefully pulling the children away.
So she can see his face.
She wipes away his tears,
As her own fall down her dusty cheeks.
They embrace, her body crumbling into his.
Her lips, sweet maple syrup.
He stares at her,
There was no beauty where he had been.
The only red,
****** skies.
The only yellow,
Jaundice, in the sick bay.
He didn't remember true beauty
Until he saw her.
She is the blood in his bruised burqa veins,
the breath of fresh air,
That he will **** deep into his soul,
Whisking away
The dunes weighing down his heart.

An unoriginal thought or idea that is profusely overused.
I adore them.
I slurp them up
a child slurping spaghetti.
I savor them
Pity those who ridicule them
Cliches are our core
the thoughts we all have, the emotions we all feel.
A cliche is human.
feel the same and think the same
A cliche is human nature on a page.
So completely unoriginal,
So completely beautiful,
And so completely judged on being who they are.

Blonde, unruly waves, falling recklessly unto her petite frame
Dull mahogany eyes, stripped of life
Soft lips turned down
Like she doesn't quite remember how to smile
A summer tan spreads across her baby skin
Covering every inch of her tired body
White linens
Make her a lady
Strangling her true identity
Young face
Wise mind, old soul
Not amused by the childish games of summer
she has seen too much
Her childhood lost
Eyes opened
To the real world.
Inhaling ribbons of grey smoke
Letting it seep into her cells
Holding it in until her lungs scream louder than her mind
The burning red ash is the only color in her grey life
The embers float down the dirt road
Leaving a path of lost innocence
Every step she takes
Another piece of grey residue
Dropped
She watches the rolled paper
Shrink
Until it almost burns her fingertips.
She does this for a sense of control
Letting it shrivel up
Watching what will eventually **** her
Die in her hands
She stares endlessly at it
And drops it onto the gravel
Stomping it out with her white church shoes
Until the bottoms are black.
And she becomes one cigarette closer
To disappearing into the smoke she breathes.