Whenever I wonder how much I love you
I put on the right song
And picture you gone.

It's like an elephant-gun's shot
To the centre
Of a mosquito's
Heart valve.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Why do the worms fiercely dig their way to the surface
During rainstorms
As though they're afraid to miss the spectacle?
Don't they know they will end up drowning
In pools of chilled sky-tears
And get stomped by careless and hurried feet?
Strewn across drenched brick and concrete walkways,
Thousands,
Yet each somehow alone in his own conquest.
Drawn
Like the moth to the flame
And my eye to the sun.

My lips miss yours.
So much so that I can feel them
Growing arms and hands so that
They can write thoughtful letters to yours
About how if they had eyes,
They would see nothing but yours;
Blind to any other love.
They write about how
If they had feet,
They would take any number of steps
Just to reach yours;
Just to touch
Even for a moment,
To hold their old friends close
In a warm embrace.
They write about how
If they had wings
They would let the wind whisk them
Halfway around the world
As long as yours were waiting on the other side.
They write about how
If they had a heart,
Every beat would sing for yours.
I sit in silence and watch;
An act of pure passion.