Pour out your heart and soul,
and others read and say… so?
That's the way it goes,
when one is a writer.
Agonize over just the right word
and others read right over it.
It's absurd, the life of a writer.
Why do we do it? They ask.
We answer, Why do we breathe?
Oh, to be a writer.

CR Binion

your demeanor

   is highly suspect,

attempting to disguise

malfeasance neath a heart

    of fortified wrought iron,

Machiavellian by nature

  still, you have your wily ways

   like that of the allure of roses

       within prickling thorns,

  twisted of laughable

         frivolous superficiality

      and reckoning's  bereavement

.

I saw your eyes among the stars
     a twinkling midnight dream
even the full moon could not outshine,
       and drifting on a comet’s tail
  I chased them across the universe
           *hoping for just one more glimpse

Kissing you was like swallowing
the salty, salty sea:

I have corals for ribs,
and seaweed limbs;
my bones are ship-wreck saves
and wishful pennies.

My heart is a sea-shell:
if you put your ear to it,
you’ll hear me screaming, shouting,
pining
for you.