Flying high, flying low
Falling hard, falling slow

Down to the end of a wooden dock
That sticks out a good way into the water,
She sat legs crisscrossed in a knot, hunched over
With her elbows to her knees, head resting
In her palms. She tries controlling her breathing,
But holding her breath makes her throat expand
Like it is croaking. Saliva pools in the lower corners
Of her mouth under her tongue, and she barely has time

To adjust herself as the bile climbs out of her throat
And down the front of her yellow crop top, dripping
Onto her stomach and crossed legs. Tears are forced
From her ducts as her stomach convulses. Capillaries
Around her eyes are popping from strain. Feeling weak,
She falls to the left on her side and curls into a trembling ball

But she wants to get the ***** off her
As soon as possible. Her shaking palms
Press against the splintering deck, pushing
To her knees to feel what was once in her stomach squish
Between her fingers making her stomach spasm;
She scrambles to her feet as fast as she can
When her only source of lighting is dying
From the wind. Before righting her balance, she slips

Backwards in the bile and tumbles into the blackened lake. Her head
Plunges first and water came rushing into her nose. It burns
Her nasal cavities as her eyes tear open in fear. She’s disoriented
From the alcohol in her system and the water is too strong
Against her weakened limbs. She tries to position herself
Up right, but the more she moves, the deeper she sinks.
She holds her breath and tries

To ignore the burning sensation up her nose and on
The surface of her eyes in her head and she can’t
Hold on. Oxygen isn’t going where it needs to and the edges
Of her vision darken. As a last attempt to fight, she reaches
Forward to grasp at anything she can get ahold of. Her fingertips
Stretch and curl only to move through the murky prison. Her vision

Is almost completely blackened out as she surrenders
Her losing fight. There’s a burn in her chest that grows
As the rhythm behind it slows. Her body,
Like the water, is still, cold, and tinted blue.

I've a particular bias
against words that don't conform to the way
that appears beautiful to me

Works that are right-justified
or unjustified
or rhyme too much (or little)
even just using bold or italics

I'm amazed at how I call what I make poems
and therefore myself a poet
and find nearly no pleasure in most poetry

for a beautiful man
who will not read this
but should know
that getting to know him
although briefly
awakened in me
a curiosity and
a passion and
a drive to
do more
see more
make more
be more
lessons from a
younger man
who has lived
longer than me
who has experienced
loss like me
and loss like I
will never know
his soul met mine
and for a brief moment
we shared time and space
in another universe
someday i hope to meet
in person
someone who often
resides in my dreams
and reminds me
in my mind
of the wonder of
living for yourself

used and abused
manipulated and bruised
into waiting for you,

testing me to see,
if i wouldn’t break free

brainwashed into loving you,
trusting no one but you

then
you shattered me
into nothing
but dust