the air put your head in my own
said youll never leave me alone
but when will it scare you to stay
you walk, you cannot walk away
i need you to learn how to breathe
undo what youve done to the breeze
the weight will be carried by few
but shared until nothing is true
is that what you want to desire
to make of yourself but a liar
ive heard all the thoughts you dont speak
theyre all too familiar to me
you dont have to hide in my head
it mustve been something i said

****
i wish we could drop acid
on a rolling hill like earthly ocean
waves,
summer breeze swiftly rocking
us back and forth in the
twisting realities, and
folding, condensing, expanding
visions, exploding in our
open, wide eyes.

i wish i could kiss you
and feel flowers grow from
your lips,
my ******* turning into
opening roses
soft and voluptuous under your
persistent hands.

get grass in my hair,
and count each and every one of the
angrily pulsating stars above us
as we lay naked somewhere
where reality can't breach.

let me comfortably say after
that i have lost my virginity;

because it'll be the first time i've ever
made love to a god.

it's sort of funny how i can bang you like
a frying pan to the head
and *** all your cigarettes
until your pockets are empty
and so is the bed
because

i'll want to know what kissing the
boy who lives next door
with the green eyes
feels like too

Sometimes I'm low.
and quiet
not really despondent
or depressed
just
low.

And quiet.

She says she doesn't like the desert,
says it's ugly
and I can't help but wonder
why?
And she's sometimes quiet
but never low.
I think maybe the desert is in me
and when lowness abounds
the wind whips the dunes of my soul
and shapes me as it sees fit
that wind is the sound in my ear
just
before
sleep finally takes me.

and although we wouldn't know what to do with it
even if we had it,
we will pray on for
rain.

i wrote my first poem
when i was somewhere around the age of two or three,
singing out the words,
and having my mother write them down.

something about a rose,
and its devotion to the light.
i have it scribbled down somewhere.

then, the words took form in shaky
childs writing,
small words and sentences describing fantastical worlds
swirling vividly in my mind,
and then in elementary school drawl,
across colored construction paper,
then on my arms and legs in middle school,
in black ink scrawling across
golden skin,
sinking in.

then, books full
of endless pages filled with
flowing and burning inspiration piled on my desk
and by my bed
the most ferocious of inspiration finding me in all my
highschool classes.
a sketchbook,
or at least a pen always held close at hand,
i even had inspiration in the shower,
and sometimes ran out naked
if i forgot a pad and pencil.

my love of words started when my mother
used to read me poetry in the womb,
and play tapes of Native American
flute music as she fell asleep
to the small, but constant feeling of
my unborn lips inside her growing stomach
forming the outline of
words to be written and said.

i started writing,
and it became my addiction;
and i've never felt the urge to stop.