Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.

A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.

A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.

A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.

But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.

Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
l­ike the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.

Some like Colombian
  Sleeping powder ....
  ounces up the nose.
  I prefer the effects
  of snorting hymns
  psalms and prose.

Others sniff crystal,
   ice, **** or glass
   I say poems are
   a narcotic of
   a much higher class.

Still others ride the
    horse talk smack or
   Stick tar. The dens
    that I frequent
    offer verses
    in their bar.

I find the world the most beautiful when it rains
And I do not mean light summer drizzles with soft cotton clouds
I mean earth destroying claps of thunder
I find the world the most beautiful when it pours
When the sky is ballpoint pen navy and the clouds onx stones
The worlds utterly breathtaking when the cosmos seem to rumble and tremor
The world is so gorgeous when the wind whips across skin like barbed wire tearing across the surface
I am not a religious person but the closest I’ve come to believing in god is standing in the middle of his storm
Palms turned to the sky drowning in his salvation singing praises of hallelujah
Hallelujah thank you lord
The closets I’ve come to feeling religion is seeing the tempest being realesed like a holy beast for the swell of rain is not gods tears
It’s gods anguish
Sputtering out in the form of bone splintering white-hot static
Angels have often been portrayed as soft wispy creatures
But they are really the children of typhoons
Weeping their fat chilling tears into the soil
For they are crying for our sins The haunting call of ***** music ripping through their vocal chords raining onto the pavement
These rain drop bullets are not signs of gods sadness
They are signs of gods wrath
Tearing up the earth like a war zone
Punishing us for our misdeeds
In these times god is reducing us back to the simple creatures that we are
Because not even humans can control his vexations
We in these moments are brought back down to our knees in prayer
Our petty ‘Forgive me father”s slipping down our tongue like water droplets
Pleading begging screaming out over the crackles of lighting
Screaming out over gods wrath
But by God this sight of destruction is nothing but beautiful
And yet
The world is the most beautiful when it pours
But it is utterly ethereal in its aftermath
In the still clean quite like an empty chapel
The sun rearing it’s head from behind wispy feather clouds
All is calm
For this is the worlds post-baptism
It’s rejuvenation
It’s rebirth
Water droplets trickling down stain glass pink petals
The dove re-emerges calling out its choir song
The bluebird responds humming out his own hymns
The closest I’ve come to believing in god is in the wake of the storm
In the hush of washed out sins repainted pale blue
For in this moment we are all reduced to nothing but Gods children
In the peace after the storm

These feral thoughts lay scattered
And lay waste to an endangered mind
It seems thorns only mattered
When they were blooming and I was blind

As I’ve seen, dreams are a virtue
While reality is a cross-
The former nails the good and true
While the latter is a mere loss

These virtuous thorns plague me
When I go lay the cross to rest
While these thorns pillage kindly
And seek a curse to heal the blessed

If dreams are ash, then a soul is fire
Onward still! We will burn before the dark
As thoughts are a haze and minds are liars
Yet, burning thorns always carry a spark.

It started out when he was four,
I bought a toy
at the dollar store.
And when I gave him
that little guitar
I never dreamed he'd go to far.

He could bring it to life
with only an ear,
the sweetest tunes,
I ever did hear.
He couldn't write music,
and he sure couldn't read it
but that little boy
sure seemed to need it.

He played for awhile,
but soon it bored him.
He forgot the guitar,
even though it adored him.
He'd begin doing one thing
and fly off to another.
He made me so tired,
just being his mother!

He still hasn't changed,
but he did surrender.
Not long ago he bought a Fender.
When he lays his fingers
upon the strings
the magic happens,
and my heart sings.
I'd stop anything
just to hear him play
his music takes my breath away.

I wish so much it could be his living,
all of that magic he could be giving!
But we must cope with life's demands.
Dreams and desires
are out of our hands.
Playing guitar will not pay the bills.
We make the most of other skills.

I'm just glad I bought that toy.
I treasure the music,
and I treasure the boy.

"I wish the rain would pass us by,"
They say as droplets fall from high
I nod my head as if to say
I think so too, but as it may
I love the rain, the life it gives
The way it makes me want to live
Inside my head, so deep inside
I murmer out an "I don't mind,"

"This freezing cold is hard to bear,"
They say with hats upon their hair
I smile back, pretend to be
What they seem to expect of me
But where the cold is colder still
Inside my mind, the freezing chill
I whisper back my icy side
"But I don't mind, no, I don't mind,"

"I can't stand when I'm all alone,"
They cry out with a striking moan
I laugh inside but nod my head
(Their trifling ways are better fed)
This time I whisper oh so slight
An, "I don't mind, no I don't mind,"

These people, they don't understand
That life does not go as it's planned
And we can choose our path we take
And sometimes ones that we don't make
So take your path, and you will find
That you don't mind, no, you don't mind

just beneath the surface
i have all these knots
some are tied with purpose
others only passing thoughts

both can be a burden
twisted ends all frayed
just beneath the surface
where these knots get in the way

Rejoice when none does know your name
you have escaped the entrapment and misery of fame!