You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
One that beat to its own rhythm,
slightly off,
tucked away in your chest
as it was.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
I remember it as you
lay asleep across me,
never slowing.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
It burnt bright
and then quickly out;
quiet now upon the hospital bed.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.

The rest of you was perfect.

in one spot: the intersection of an infinite number of chances
& their permutations.
produced: a nighttime arrythmia of storm drain popcorn
leather creaks and my friends' leaky sink.
your hand is surprisingly soft; i am out of line
(that was a pun).

There is no need to agree with me
I see your love being used sparingly, as it is
We already share the same tree of life
And fuel is only as bright as the ultimate, really
We come from hundreds of angels wrestling
Welcoming the shared commodity of love
Back into our shattered skylines and economies
Consternation was constructed from dust
So we encrusted rubies and revolved on our butts
I trusted you to crush me correctly
Instead you became funny
And money fell from your fingertips
Now we bring humor to the dying
In lingering dreams of the aristocracy
Among the other moondancers
We alone fancy a rush of nothingness
When less than a decade ago
We could still find lookouts for our shadows
I resume the music as fumes drip vaporous
And campaigns to elect our democratic fathers
Are merely shambles of something
That once enraged us but now just ramble on forever
Until we can't wait to end all this target practice
But we are still mere artifacts of human hammering
Instantly building our secret languages
Where we will speak nothing but tired gibberish
To a enlightened community of solipsistic symbolists

A patchy sky leaves the moonlight with arrythmia
Leaving me to match it's rhythm
As I play "red light green light"
With the eyes and teeth that twinkle
In the shadows like stars
Painted on the void
Just beyond what I can see