Turning On My Word Faucet

Words trickle,
From the faucet,
In a deadly drought.
And I lean in,
Mouth open,
Ready to take in each drop
As if swallowing life itself.

Desperation for life,
For creativity,
For words,
For men in capes and women with crowns,
And confused girls standing at windowsills.

For that light that shines just beyond
That hill of reality

Desperation for that drop,
From the word faucet.

This is the power of words to me.

I crave the power to turn on that faucet
And let it flow,
Streaming life to whoever wants to Taste it.

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Growing Pains

Love.

I used to think about it
as an end point
“they fell in love”
and then they were in it.
a quick fall and whoosh:
love!

that was before
I ever tripped, skipped, hopped climbed, sprinted, and got tangled head to toe
in this thing called love
because there’s no straight and easy falling involved.
you can fall in fuck.
not in love

Love
has growing pains
that simple, sweet
tingle in your heart
spreads all over
in time,
the love reaches your fingers
with which you caress his face
that love reaches your mind
with which you plan shared futures
that love stretches out each organ, vein, and crevice of your soul

sometimes it hurts
the jealousy, the pure need, the longing
like the pain of a new tooth coming in
love growth needs time to adjust,
to settle in its place

right now
I feel our love growing
I hear it stretching,
preparing to strengthen yet again
as I rub my cheek against his scruffy sleeping face
and smell the familiar scent which is him
and smile at those closed, sunken eyes
that beautiful beautiful boy

in those early morning moments
before the first light
I ‘fall’
a little deeper

This Love

This love
It is divine
Our souls recognize one another
Bound by metal coils of fate.

This love
It is wholesome
Healthy
Fun.

Until it is not.

Until those moments
Where his soul
Becomes a stranger.
Those bonds of coil
Undone within a second.

Those moments when I know
And he knows
His words are not authentic
His “sorry baby’s” fake
His heart quite cold.

So I mourn for
My best friend
And my lover
For the day or two
Tending to the wounds of a sudden lonely heart.

I know he will come back to me.

I hope

I pray

Poetry Matters.

There are those who ask-
Why not say it straight?
Why complicate with abstract words
With metaphors and similies
Strung together with the threads
Of rhythm and rhyme

I’ll tell you why.
Because there is something inside all of us
That cannot be explained
Something in our soul
That transcends simple sounds.
That energy, that depth,
The vibration in our being.

So we try our best
To capture that something,
To chase its shadows
With our alliterations and adjectives

And we hope that when we write and you read,
You feel it too

That something inside of us
That cannot be explained.

The Monster of Nighttime

insom

As I lie hear,
I have begun to feel my brain.
I feel the neurons moving,
And the energy of movement vibrating.

The monster of Nighttime is laughing,
I can hear him outside my window.
He dangles sleep in my face
So close, he lets me taste it,
Then rips it away.
Cruel, cruel Nighttime.

My Body is heavy,
Lead.
It used to beg my brain to shut up,
But now it just lies there,
Given up,
Helpless.

Knowing it will have to face yet another sunrise
When the world walks about fueled
And it wonders,
Half dozed,
Through faces and places that have become a blur.

I may not be sleeping
But I am in a nightmare.
When will I wake up?
When will I go to sleep?

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