Can't stop thinking about the things that i miss about you..
Can't understand the idea of us not being together anymore..
Can't tell what if what i miss is real or is it only because i'm a mess..

Then i asked myself million times, what do i really miss?

Is it your Smile?, Is it your Eyes?, Is it your Existence?, Is it your Vibes?, Is it your Kiss?, Is it your Touch?, Is it your Lips?, Is it your Voice?, Is it your Laugh?, Is it your Jokes?, Is it your Humor?, Is it your Anxiety?, Is it your weird Faces?, Is it your gen gen gen?, Is it your Teasing?, Is it your Music?, Is it your Singings?, Is it your Notes?, Is it your Cuddling?, Is your thoughts?, Is your ideas?, is your Thinking?, Is it your Poems?, Is it your Philosophy?, Is it your Calls?, is it your Hiiiii?, Is it your stories?, Is it your caring?, Is it your iced coffee with milk?, Is it Cigarettes?, Is it your Dancing?, Is it your Korean food?, Is it you sitting in my car?, Is it your Anxious?, Is it your Cough?, Is it your Knowledge?, Is it your Photography?, Is it your Outfit?, Is it your Beauty?, Is it your look?, Is it your Dreams?, Is it your talks?, is it your Skin?, iIs it your Meditations?, Is it your tears on my chest?, Is it your face?, Is it your nails?, Is it your selfies with me?, Is it your Smell?, is it your Perfume?, Is it your Breath?, Is it your Drawings?, Is it your Rap?, Is it your salmon?, Is it your Takies?, Is it your Korean music?, Is it your Emojies?, Is it your Voice notes?, is it your Smile?, is it your Hair?, is it you 11:11 moment?, or is it your love?..
​
I know it's too late already, but i just want to let it out of my mind..

It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His  emotion....
His failure...

heavy bags,bouncing busses n sweaty days.
Is what i called ****** school life.
Obnoxious teachers getting their ways.
Rules,regulations and continuous strife.
i had decided to stick to studies coz fun doesn't last anyway
Finish off school being invisible coz friendship is but for a few days
what i didn't know back then
Was in d end ill have these idiots i call my friends
Idiots who made me laugh wen i wanted to cry
idiots who changed my point of view making me realize

That good Friends do not get replaced
They just make their way into hearts n make their own space
m not even kidding when i say
These r professional idiots in every way

Like he_ for example cant get enough of screaming my name simply for fun
But i know that if i had to pick the sweetest concerned friend,she would b the one
she's an all rounder, amazing at everything
with her, fun is always present even while studying
People who annoy u r d ones who care most
is what i try to believe when it comes to this dost
who Even after she dies will probably haunt me as a ghost
Ni_ wont even budge if i say get lost
and great gh_ believes she's the only one who can b rude to her friends
and if anyone else dares the same,off with their heads!
A thriller movie is life according to her Highness
Her laughter echoes with pure childish innocence <3

These idiots may tease me till there's nothing left
But r also bodyguards of my deepest secrets
Their jokes n sarcasm will have u in fits
it is true i love these idiots to bits
idiots who add up to my best friends list
Idiots i consider as priceless gifts

Coz They r special in so many ways
coz They r bandages to my wounds, Brought back my lost smile
they're The 'start button' to my new life
coz They accepted me d way i was
N mostly Coz,
since my heart was no more
These guys aimed for my soul

N they got it.

:) dedicated to my frnz in IIS

w

          w



                         wh



                                             what loves


                                                     this
                                                        I?i
                                                      loves the
                                                      rushing of in girls
                                                      Summer when heat
                                                      does its lips in forked
                                                      seething.

                                                       I loves
                                                       the hush
                                                       of almost winter nights
                                                       and the concise
                                                       melancholy
                                                       of empty rooms.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the by
                                                        cherriest of wristness
                                                        to loosely
                                                        in vagrant slumber
                                                        stir whitely.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the brother of my brother, and
                                                        the little timid
                                                        of barely unviolence boys
                                                        (in fists very tightly which).

                                                         But.

                                                          w w   ww what loves
                                                           Iis
                                                           the most
                                                           of life
                                                           and lessing
                                                           too
                                                           of it
                                                           into
                                                           primest daftness of sleep.

People come and people go
Feelings change, but don't we all know
This too well already

A sad fact of life, addictions gripping like an iron vice, stealing the very life force from veins,
Change faces, inflict pain

Steal away those we once thought we knew
Convince them to do things they never knew they could do

Narcotic charms, sickly poison in his arms
Contorting, twisting, distorting, the heart

Withering away, taking all that it can, waging war on yourself for one last fix....once is too much, but too much iis never gonna be enough

Until the day comes
Drifting...somewhere below consciousness, somewhere above reality
A pleasure so profound
Yet when outside looking in, your simply on the nod

Outside of yourself, shedding mortal coil, for heights unknown, untouched. A shell remains...

You are so far away from me now, in your eyes, its hard to find you...

the one I thought I knew
A smile that was capable of warming me to the core
Now only conjured when the the pin goes *****

Another sickly blemish on your skin

On my famished heart

You'll waste away
And when people ask
I'll smile and say

That I'm okay

Maybe
if I can capture you on paper,
I can keep you.

You see,
I had hoped for the memory of you
to fade with my summer tan
but now I find myself greedy,
indulging in thoughts of you like a child sneaking chocolates.

I am thinking of you
sitting with me on a lumpy twin bed,
and wanting so badly to memorize you.
I asked if your hair was course or fine.
You let me run my fingers deeply through it
and there was an aching and a hollowness in me,
knowing your palate preferred a more balanced plate.

I never had you.
But I did, didn't I?
Just for a paragraph, but that's alright
because it belongs to me.
Iis mine to take out and taste in spoonfuls
or in buckets, or to stifle in a wooden box,
but it will always seep through the tiny fractures
and spill onto the page
because
that is the power of memory and words.

Nothing more than a shock
A mental block
Violent waves
And a broken clock
The traffic in my head is deep
It’s heavy
It’s congested
There’s a crash up ahead
Signs flickering, bright lights
“ Stop” “ Wrong way” “trouble ahead”
The traffic is clearing
It’s nearing the end of rush hour
It still feels stuffy
Congested
Tight, it’s foggy
I’m losing sight of this glowing sign ahead now
“ I’m goi-“
It’s all I’m able to read
Horns are blowing, I’m distracted
Can’t see where I’m going anymore
The rains pooring,
The roads slippery
The windshield wipers are loud
They screech
I want to turn around, but I can’t
I’m on a highway
It’s so congested
Foggy high beams
I can’t see the cars
I’m trapped , but I can see a little more of the sign “ I’m going to-“ that’s It i  can’t see
It’s cut off, what does it mean
I can’t do this Iis too hard, it’s too heavy
I can’t see, I can’t see
It’s foggy as hell, but the signs clear
I can read it, “ I’m going to bless you, but you have to do you’re part and steer clear of the devil’s obstacles “
I’m going to keep going and have faith that the traffic of my thoughts clear up with the presence of my God here

The philosophers have told us
Know thy self.. But how.? Always you
Have known Knowing and not Knowing
Ask yourself what is the difference. Can
It  too  be known  now you are approaching
The Heart of the mystery-where you will find
The Way that is the Mystery of knowing your
Self. and is the Mystery that exists but cannot
Be solved but lives on without denying death but
Is their coincidence each an affirmation of the
Other. The Mystery lives and it is the Love of
Truth and the Truth of Love and it is always
One  and iis both known and not known.  On
Earth as it is n heaven.  But how can that Be?

Hello poetry iis mentioned and Thanked in the acknowledgment  area of my poetry book.
The chance I took in bringing my work to the public came because I Write here.
I will continue to do so.
I will support this site just as soon as we support Paws for Purple Hearts which is a service dog organization.
My book tells people to heal the heart and mind.
Please be patient but know I  am a poet here and I care.
There are people who one here to read and don’t write.
They are equally as important as my fellow poets.
I write grants too and if asked will help.

WHEN YOU KNOW THE NEXT KISS

When I see you, I see me.
When I see you slowly getting
older, I see myself doing the
same.

You are my mirror. Your
wrinkles are my wrinkles. When
your hair slowly grows grey, mine
iis slowly greying too.

On any given day, I am oblivious
to this synchronicity. I am sure I
am your mirror, too, but, like me,
you say nothing.

We have, by now, spent years,
decades, making love, laughing,
eating, taking trips together, holding
each other until the tears stopped
flowing.

We are, as it were, parallel partners
on a long, long journey, the end of
which neither of us knows.

So kiss me many, many times,
and when you know the next kiss
will be your last, keep your lips
pressed against mine, forever.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks