I write poetry, drink coffee,
talk art, dig cinema,
wear t-shirts without graphics,
t-shirts without tags,
and screen-print my to-do lists
on everything.
I say all this as I blow-dry
the temporary tattoo on my wrist.

i used to go to sleep anxious
for morning
to see your smile along with the sun
now i drift into unconsciousness
hoping to stay there
a little longer
knowing my dreams
are the only place i'll be seeing you

We didn't last forever;
the word attaches shackles
and chains that restrain,
and is better left unspoken--
never uttered, always locked
in the bars of my ribcage
where it restlessly remains
in utmost agony.

Then,
it stops.

The silence haunts me,
and my ribcage is imbalanced.
With laughter filled with tears,
and nonchalance juxtapose passion,
I whisper:

"Nothing lasts forever.
We fell apart like rose petals
amongst heavy storms."

The mask slips;
I avert my
red-rimmed eyes.

"But we could have--
oh darling,
we could have."

Ironic isn't it?
A poem about poetry?
A small thing talking about
The larger thing that is makes up.

But that's what poetry is.

Poetry is made up of words
That people are afraid to say,
Yet yearn to write because
Everyone needs to let the words escape.

Poetry is a collection of poems,
Which are a collection of words,
Which are a collection of thoughts,
Which are a collection of ideas.

Poetry is a collection of everything that makes a person who he is.

So, yes, this is a poem about poetry
Because poems are about expression
And desire,
And the desire to express.

That's what I have,
A desire for expression.
So, I'm expressing my desire
By writing a poem about poetry.

Poetry is the small thing that makes up the big thing.
That big thing is me,
And people around me.

And we make up the world.

What if God was there
as you lay inside your cardboard box
What if God was there
as you drowned in your Whiskey on rocks
What if God was there
when you laid your child down
six feet under the ground
What if God was there
but never made a sound
What if God was there
when you shot a foreign stranger in the chest
What if God was there
playing the weakest against the next best
What if God was there
when your car left the road
What if God was there
and did nothing, although
he. would. have. known
What if God cured World Hunger
Stopped Wars and abolished Cancer
What If God stopped Greed and Avarice
and just gave the world a coherent answer?
What if God is just someone
to hold on to throughout the bad times
What if God just doesn't really care
and you are simply responsible
for your own crimes?

i want to tell you about lost poems.
about how the scars on my neck
used to tell stories of an angel
singing into my skin and every
time they burn i feel myself dying
in her arms all over again.
i want to tell you about the
endless pages and colored notes
and backs of cigarette packs i
wrote her name on, and how each one of them
ended up in my bruised fingertips
clutching her waist.
i want to tell you about the time
she set my lungs on fire with her
snow cold skin; how she blew
stardust into my nostrils and i
spiraled into dark addiction.
i want to tell you how i craved her
beauty like a dead man craved the oxygen that
once flowed through his veins-
i'll tell you how i crave her still.
i want to tell you about lost
poems, how they never really
come back to you. how all you
can do is sit on the floor and write about them
until there's nothing left but
dried ink and a hollow ache in the
parts she kissed you most.
she is my lost poem.