The stucco-flowers,

painted over too thickly,


resemble planets.

Poetry should console one with the many tortures of existence. One should feel understood by a poem. A poem should say, "It's okay, so long as I'm here." Pain and death: The black ink and the white space of our letters, and the language: It is with this language that we write life, beauty, and joy. Love. Through poetry. Poetry shouldn't be to show off, or to make money, to get views, it shouldn't even be for itself. It should be for whoever the poem itself is for. For humanity. This doesn't mean all poetry has to be sad poetry. Happy poetry is okay as well. But there's something so utterly impermanent about a brief moment of happiness. The sweetest touch has never left a scar. But the sweetest pain - that
Is poetry.

Not all success is celebrated.
Some success is quiet
and unnoticed.
This doesn't speak of scale
nor strength or significance.
It speaks only of circumstance.

Handicapped by my brain
art and poetry are my crutches.
How long will they last?
Are they helping me stand?
or just digging a hole
for me to sink deeper?

If I wrote a song about me
The intro would be a happy melody.
I’d miss a couple chords
Hum some notes a little too sharp
But it’s okay

The first verse would be laughter
Dancing through the sun’s rays
White keys beneath my fingers
Playing the major

The second verse would fog over
minor notes bleeding through
each wrong sound a confession
I prayed no one would hear

The chorus would unravel
Restless chords, circling, choking
A violin played with shards of glass

The third verse would be filled with screaming
Raw and jagged
Into the void where I hoped to disappear
The fourth would fade into silence
And the fifth would hollow to a ghost

Then the devil's interval would loop, waiting for the next line

Peacock feathers
perfection.
A baby panther yawning
yawning, sleek and
black, a swan leaning
back
stretching pristine snowy wings.
Petrichor, crisp musk,
floating river feathers,
mother’s ozone after rain,
all
around
hitting soft
down.

The reddest of roses held to the sky.
The clearest of tears
we have yet to cry.

A silvery plate of oily green olives throwing back the sun,
of which they are ,   one.
( of which we all are)
so hard,
becoming one with nothing again in each passing breath.
Energy expended.
A thought, by moments.... in emotions
extended.

The care of casket sheen — silken interiors but overflowing with the wet, inky blackness of squirming, over-lit salamanders. Writhing
Erupting.
Effluviant.
Rubbery little salamanders.
Everywhere.
Nature. The nature. Of art and beauty.
Understanding, the great misunderstanding
right before our eyes. Right. before.         Our eyes.
Rite before our eyes.
Eyes, another’s .What we truly long to see.
The clarity of symbols built over centuries
and lost in a single fire/trend.

We the gentle
Are meant for
Sentimental
For charcoal pencil thumb-smudged skies
Over lamplit rented rooms on the Seine
Moonlight gauzey glamoured eyes
Grimy hands that write paint spin, throw clay,
that grab our grandfather’s violin at all hours of the day and play.
Mad with passion,
starving, raving, gorged on lush love-struck life abundant,
on rain-slicked splendor.

We the gentle
Bend toward each other in salvation as sunflowers turn inward in the absence of sunlight.
Salvation.
It’s all wrong
We do not belong do not belong.
Bloodletting stardust into the vents
Hearts rent and free bleeding
Feeding the over fed
No page or paint, no violin
No romance, no gods here
But Death and Dread.

We the gentle
Get no roses but see red red red with arms outstretched,
Fighting the tide
Soft bodies open minds
Not weak but kind
Once fruit, now rind
We aren’t meant for these times.
Clear eyed and noncompliant,
We who know the essence of Love Defiant,
Truth in muck, truth in starlight,
We feel the press on all ******* sides
To run, to hide

And instead sing, paint, play
Write.