The magic released from your fingertips purr like spikey legs of a cricket, and although the pitch can be quite much, at least it fills the defeaning silence. And that's better than nothing.
It's everything compared to nothing

See, it's a different type of suffering.
As cardinal as the cardinals sing,
sound still sounds more radiant from your mouth; light as a cloud and tempting as the devil's cake, but it's much too **** loud for this headache.

Just as a hummingbird you urge each redundant peck deeper, and with it comes a blatant crooked creek. It's such a lovely repeat to wake up to, but the minute reality sets in I just want to shake you and retreat back to sleep so sound.
Retreat back to sound as sleep.

My cloudy head floats peeking at your ground,
and I can't make up my mind when your earth is bringing it down.

Beneath "the Blue Room" of Picasso
lies a mystery long concealed;
It is the portrait of a man
which only infrared revealed.
Reusing canvas is a trait
that struggling artists understand.
Concealing one work with another
masking the efforts of weaker hands.

We too are canvas of a sort
drawn in the culture of our birth.
Then, painted over by other masters
of uncertain provenance and worth.
Beneath the layer of the cynic
lies the young child's trusting eyes.
The image we are shown, world weary,
concealing where true beauty lies.

Her back arched with insecurities
hips full of eve's sin.
Carved into her ******* are all the planets she has slept with: three.
Flesh purple
Lips puckered.
She was taught about the things that rotate solely around her,
About her power
About holding her mothers feet in her lap and listening to stories about home.
A home she knows only from yellowing photographs and broken proverbs and tales of freedom.
She has spent too long dancing with the heavy absence of hands on her waist;
With the bitter taste of men sitting on her tongue.
With the eyes that follow her like moths to light.
Every word she speaks is fire from her teeth,
Lighting her face
Burning the men who get so close she can smell the eager sweat from their backs.
She was taught to howl when the men tell her she is beautiful,
She is better than poor adjectives
She is endearing, dazzling, fulgurous.
but
she is not her mother,
no matter how hard she tries to be.
She is her father; dark, and cold, and drunk, drunk, drunk.

you didn't care to read my poetry
you didn't care to know my favorite song
or know my favorite book

you didn't care to know anything about me at all
except my face
my lips
and my body

all you wanted was physical affection,
no mental connection

that's precisely why I chose to leave

As it continues to grow darker,
My lungs continue to morph or dry out.

Air.
Is it a saviour or suffocation?

she was a frozen child
for all eternity.

her bones were strong
her skin still soft
her hair always silky

even though she was six feet underground.

I couldn't walk past the coffee shop we visited
and walk through the isles of our local bookstore
without your name screeching through my head
like acrylic nails on a chalk board

I thought i'd never heal
I thought i'd never forget
but now it's been a full year

and I couldn't remember that your favorite artist was Bon Jovi
and you smelled of shaving cream
and you hated the taste of coffee because it was bitter (similar to you)
and I almost forgot about your stretch marks that were a terrible insecurity, even though you're a boy.
I almost forgot about that Coldplay song, Strawberry Swing.
I almost forgot that your favorite color is green,
and you had an undying relationship with music,
which was always in your ear.

all these things used to cause me to cringe
until the day i forgot them,
and they came back,
but now you're forgiven and i'm almost completely healed.

you're the wound that caused
terrible bleeding and an itching scab
that I would peel off and cry about
but in the end you left a wonderful scar
that will bring back good memories

you're forgiven