We always talked about watching the sunset,
Laying on the roof
Watching the lights of the city below us
As if they were stars forming constellations,
Pointing out people walking by
As if they were ants below our feet on the sidewalks,
Tracing each other scars
With the tips of my fingers
And your smooth, perfect lips.
But we never talked about the sunrise.
The moon doesn't stick around for the morning,
But neither did you.

Seeing is further from believing
Them my face from the stars
And though quite literally
It is just my brain interpreting
What I am supposedly seeing
I believe in disbelief
As the trail from
The flickering shooting star
Slowly burns out
To die
But only in my eyes

We throw lies into lives

like pebbles in a pool

watching the ripples disturb the calmness

then cascade off into the distance

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.