In a world full of artists and  writers,
It’s hard not to compare
“Are the poems I write good?
What makes them different from anyone else’s out there?”

My poems don’t rhyme
At least, not all the time
And my words may not be exquisite
Hell, they’re hardly even elegant

No, my poems may not be the best
But, they do come from the heart
So who’s to say
that isn’t art?

I admire women
who could've turned
cold after everything
they've been through
but still choose love anyway

there's strength in that

at any stage —
a rose strikes beauty

we are all open books written in an old language
waiting for someone to come and translate
our story
our words.
be patient
the translator is coming.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

i was always an open book
just written in a dead language.
all the translators were wrong,
time and time again
until you came along.

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

. . . as I sit on the dunes looking at the sea . . .

I contemplate what was , what is , what is due

I watch the waves come in and crash , recede , and crash again

So were my chances that came in waves , receded and crashed again

My life's foundation resides on these impermanate dunes

I cannot stand for long on the shifting sands ,
changing with the winds of time , before I am forced to move

Motion made me . . .
The vibration of the small details
I know you know but you never told me

I will never be what I wanted to be . . .

But that doesn't matter anymore

the boy with black hair
talks like a renaissance person
and shines like Venus.

he is ******* up and brilliant,
he is cold and full of venom,
but he cannot love
and he cannot die.

my mind has been far,
wandering through his universe.
it stops and listens to his heartbeat.
silence.

the world is his,
but he does not belong here.
the boy is a sphere
of incomprehensible truths
and we are just a circle.

r.c.
r.c.
you are my only ticket to eternity.