It is to be on Winter's Eve,
  a holiday for two.
And how the snow will dance for thee,
  with hair matching to boot.

In both its length and in its sway,
  your strands of golden sun
will radiate our merry days
  and blind out lonely ones.

Wine for now to celebrate what
  will only be two weeks.
Wine again to celebrate, but
  these weeks to be the least!

As feast for two will soon be three
  then four, no five or more!
I cannot wait, a father, me?
  Children of ours be born!

Purpose of life, we shall have; share
  our life's meaning we will.
As us to them and they to theirs,
  we will grow old fulfilled.

Not if but when the snow winds storm,
  of me you'll find no sin.
For coat and drink will lack the warmth
  as family's love within.
Sondering Jul 3
Oh, human; so many types of you,
I could not fathom my fate if I were to
long so much, work so hard and obtain so little,
facing the sun while
straddling the moon like you do.
You like to be irresistible in every
single, tiny little thing you do, don't you;
from the way you part your lips and smile,
to the way you hold out your rough, aching hands towards me,
planting a tender kiss on my forehead
and asking for my soul in return.
You like to stir up my mind, imploring one thing with me
but then diverging off to explore a
whole entirely different one altogether,
all alone and cold, dripping white glistening
trails of stars all over my arms.
You are always telling me that you need time
to forgive yourself,
to forgive the shards of broken, diamond glass
you pull out of your pockets
and hurl at the ground you tread on,
forgive the blood red roses and green tangled thorns
you wear a top of your head,
blood trickling down curls of ivory hair,
like streaks of winter cherries
flowing down to your shoulders.
They say you like to dance,
stomping all over paradise with
black, jagged leather boots,
and whirling mountains around your fit torso,
gripping the blowing wind
in your arms and forcing it to carry you
as gigantic as you are,
because other things need to
experience oppression too.
Suddenly you are explosively loud when you
claim you're okay/alright,
like those few words hold captive your purpose
of existing beneath the stars,
when all you ever wanted was to be one.
And when you're laughing in your bed,
legs tangled with evergreen whips of dried woven grass,
chest hidden underneath a blanket of cool, violet-blue dawns,
the sight of you is so beautiful and painfully wretched
that I am torn over just laying down with you
or hurdling you off my mountain of life.
If there ever was such a confusion
that loved so passionately, breathed so calmly,
and raged so defiantly
at the mere thought of just existing,
it would be such a creature
as a human.
07/02/18
This is a highly emotional
and largely uncontrollable
event,
so it's important
to discuss your fears

Yet pain
has a purpose,
It drives us into movements
and positions the progress

Your mind may need
a massage,
pushing is usually
around the corner
and then your
breathing faster

Slow it down
breathe,
In and out
Push a little
Control your breathing
Inhale, exhale
you’re contracting
Hold a little
Counting
Now Push

And then

That final hour
the euphoria,
the tears,
the laughter
For all it’s worth

A Poem
has been given birth
Unfortunately no epidural for poets,
No anesthesia inserted into the right brain
No intravenous narcotics, to dull that labour pain.

Poetic Surgery, Copyright © 2018,  All rights reserved.
Patrick Mar 4
You were the first color I had seen. In a world of gray, you were a gleaming red. When I met you, it was like a supernova of passion had erupted into my world, never to be the same.

Suddenly everything was vibrant; My life was no longer a walk along a blues' ode to content. It was as if I suddenly had a Divine purpose, God himself seeing fit to grace me with such an angel.

But the fool I was, the fool I am, diverted my gaze back to the gray. For who was I to deserve such a gift? One of such beauty, character, wit.

This Angel deserves God, and I was but a demon. So I flew back to my self-imposed hell, ready to submit to oblivion. And even as I descended down, your hand I saw reach to the ground.

You stopped my fall; So now? I fall only for you.
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