I never thought of poetry as a way to get famous. I always saw it as a way of expression, a release of bottled emotions shoot out like a cannon. Where the most insecure person can let there inner wings open and start to fly over the clouds. In school you never really cared for grammar or metaphors or illusions because you thought it as just a waste of time but if you think about it. You use it everyday and you wouldn't even expect. It's a way of life it's an art it's as beautiful as watching a meadow of flowers bloom right in front of your eyes. Poetry opens minds opens ideas opens different perspectives that no one can ever imagine. Maybe that's why I wanted to become a poet. Not for the money or for the fame. But for the world can hear what I've been holding deep inside my locked heart.

The artist leaned in slowly
to his daughter’s sculpted visage,
placed a slender leaf of gold
across her ceramic brow
and gently pressed it with his brush.

But for all his art and craft he knew
no gilder’s foil was half so dear
as the child with half-closed eyes –
with mother’s tender brush
caressing strands of finest gold -
singing her to sleep.

You breathe in.
A kiss:
how do you take
your coffee?

I prefer it sweet
and warm
against my lips.

I breathe in.
A story:
coffee grinds pour out
into wet garden soil,
later staining the clothes of my
kneading daughter.

She prefers water to coffee,
sober and clean,
though
studying dribbling coffee like
a drip of morphine.

How do you take
your coffee?
I reply.
A revelation:
most mornings I make it fresh,
but the *** brewed overnight
somehow tastes sweet.

I think tonight is a
Drink wine, discuss life
And smoke-cigarettes-while-I-fume
Kind of night,

Pun intended.

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.