float to me

lean on me

I will catch you

weak as the legs

I use to stand

may be,

lay it all on

me,

& I will

requite your

trust with all

the love I have

ever had to

give, just call

I know

you need a

friend, & here

I am;

a stranger

I sat there beneath the big Maple tree in the center of Sunkenwater Park. I leaned back onto my hands, peering over the compendium of countless smaller trees that littered the grounds like so many cigarette butts and beer cans. The Sun hung high, looking down at me with a smile you could only see if you were staring directly at it, which I did for a moment until my vision became bleached with Godlike light. I sighed, scanned the grounds again and then slowly descended onto my back. I stared straight up into the spider leg set up of branches above me, hanging there indifferently and silently. I sighed again without even noticing, this time completely unintentionally.

And that's when her head found it's way into my kind of sight. She was standing over me, looking down, eye squinted like she was examining some microscopic and otherworldly specimen.
"Hey," slipped from her pretty pinkish lips.
"Hi," I replied, staring right back.
She smiled slightly and sat down next to me, descending slowly and gracefully into her back just like me, right next to me.
"What's up?" I turned so I was facing her ear as she refused to face me yet.
"Nothing, just thinking."
"Oh. About what?" I narrowed my brow inquisitively.
"Us. Me and you. And why."
I cocked my head slightly. "Why what?"
"Why you love me so much."
I pursed my lips. Turned my head back so I was staring at the spidery branches and breathed slowly out if my nose. Then I pointed up, aiming my finger at the the beams of cut up Sunlight that was finding its way through the branches above our heads and onto us, the source if all life.
"Because you remind me of the Sun."
"The Sun, huh?"
"You give me what I need. You give me my reasons. You give me movement. Physically and emotionally. And you do always fund a way. A way through. A way out. You're a resilient person. And you do it without even trying. I love you because you are who you are. And who you are is pretty **** ridiculous in the sense that I've never net a soul quite like you. For lack of a less cliche term; you are my light. And I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world."
She kept her gaze upward for a long time. I did the same. Soaking up the Sun's rays with a dumb grin like I knew it was the last time is be able to take part in such a miracle. It didnt matter in that moment that she didnt love me. All that mattered was that I loved her. And would continue to do so, unapologetically, until her rays of light stopped finding their way into my heart, which had been growing increasingly dimmer and dimmer until I met her. I was thankful and I felt dumb but I was too proud to care.
She turned to me, but I didn't turn back. She lifted her hand up off of the grass and found mine, interlocking her fingers and turning again to face the sky.

POETRY IS NOT PUBLISHED IN A BOOK
OR SCRIBBLED IN A JOURNAL.

IT IS NOT COMPOSED OF STRICT METER AND RHYME,
STANZA AND STRUCTURE,
ASSONANCE AND ALLITERATION.

POETRY IS NATURE.

POETRY IS NON-SEQUITUR.

POETRY IS THE WAY OUR HIPS AND LIPS
INTERTWINE LIKE GRASPING VINES
WITH DETERMINATION AND GRACE
THAT IS SIMPLY DIVINE.

POETRY IS THE WAY YOU WAKE UP ON A LAZY SUMMER SUNDAY MORNING
AND LISTEN TO THE HEARTBEAT OF YOUR LOVER
LYING NOT TOO FAR AWAY.

POETRY IS THE COMPASSION AND SELFLESS DESIRE
THAT CAUSES US TO BUY MEALS FOR STRANGERS
AND TIP EXTRA JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT.

POETRY IS THE FACT THAT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US IS ANOTHER INFINITELY RANDOM MANIFESTATION OF THE UNIVERSE ATTEMPTING TO UNDERSTAND ITSELF THROUGH CONVOLUTED COSMIC INTROSPECTION.

POETRY IS THE WAY THAT THE STARDUST FLOWS THROUGH OUR VEINS AND THE LIMITLESS POTENTIAL OF HUMAN CREATIVITY HIDES JUST OUT OF SIGHT BEHIND OUR EYES.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE WISE WINDS BLOW SOFTLY THROUGH THE TREES, WHISPERING SECRETS TO ANYONE WHO WISHES TO HEAR.

POETRY IS THE WAY THE RIVER LOVINGLY EMBRACES EACH AND EVERY PEBBLE IN THE RIVERBED LIKE A MOTHER HOLDING HER NEWBORN SONS.

POETRY IS ORGANIC.
MALLEABLE.
THESE WORDS ARE NOT POETRY -
LIFE IS POETRY.
DEATH IS POETRY.
LOVE -
LOSS -
STRIFE -
SUCCESS -
POETRY.
WE ARE POETRY.

Sometimes loneliness holds my hand.
Sometimes the road stretches far beyond what my imagination can fathom.
Sometimes the distance and the heartache is too much to hold.
Sometimes the worry and the danger drives me insane.
Sometimes time is on our side.
Right now it seems not to be.
But sometimes time is all you have with a person, and it is the most valuable and precious thing.

This time, for one dance in the moonlight, it would be worth it.

Everyone's hug
Leaves a different shaped imprint on my soul.

When you're drowning in a bucket...

Then someone kicks it.

Some guy's picture on the inside of a book sleeve
told me that he could help me write something other
than the worthless crap I'd been spewing for the past couple months.
Takes ten steps-
normal stuff
like
1. Clear your mind (which means you have to have a mind to begin with).
2. Don't be afraid
3.
4.
5.
Poetry is like this.. writing a poem is like that..

6. Pick a subject that means something

I mean all the real stuff you need to know
you should know by now, right?
Well I didn't **** anyone. My innocence didn't die when I was fifteen.
In fact, I still pretend two water drops are racing each other
when the fall down my car window-
and like a real contest I take bets.
I bet on a lot of things
like how long it will take me to get to the point-
the point
so how am I supposed to write beautifully about tragic things
I never experienced?
Worst thing that happened to me this week
was I put too much mayonnaise on my sandwich, making it mushy
and no one wants to read about that.

So the book then tells me, once I've scraped tediously through chapter 7,
that I should use bizarre words in real conversations
to spark my "withheld creativity"
because I'm "too scared" to let it show.
Here's a tip the book doesn't tell you-
don't ask your two best friends for help
because they'll come up with things like
"sparkling parachute pants"
or even "scented paraffin"
and who the hell knows what a paraffin is.
Then they'll start calling themselves your "muse"
and you'll never hear the end of it.
But they'll buy you drinks to make you feel better about
how ****** you feel and the ten blank word documents you have at home.
So I guess you probably should ask your friends after all.

Chapter 10 is when it gets really weird,
because it starts wondering which side of the brain writes what-
telling me to start writing things with my left hand
because it's "neurologically different" then what your right hand would do.
But last time I checked, I didn't write poetry with my right hand
because it surged some hidden message onto the page.
I did it because I'm right handed.
I advise you just completely skip chapter 10
unless you're a shrink and need some Sunday pleasure reading.

The final chapter becomes really inspirational-
reminding my tired heart how much originality I possess
and there's still lyrical words "hidden up my sleeve."
(they use a lot of clichés like that).
It will tell you how every great writer has been there.
How they all started just like you.
How "hero's get remembered, but legends never die"
Wait sorry, that's something else.
See what these books will do to you?
They'll make you crazy
you'll start drinking things like chai tea and reading soap opera magazines.
You'll stop going to the bathroom entirely-
and they'll tell you to do stupid **** like that
because they understand that right now
you're so desperate to write something
ANYTHING
that you'll start romancing about the stuffed animal in the corner
or the piece of lint you just know is under your bed.
Before you know it you'll start listening to Norah Jones on the weekends,
not shaving,
wearing glasses
snapping
the whole bit,
because that's how empty you feel
because writing
is like breathing
and when you stop writing
you stop breathing-
it's that easy.

But I advise you to finish the book.
It'll be worth it.
However, you won't start writing a **** thing
until you laugh at all the prose sections in a book
meant to tell you how to write poetry,
but here's the secret they don't tell you.
No one can tell you how to write poetry.
You just have to do it.
You just have to **** for a good while before you start writing
something better than "seasons farewell" or the other Robert Frost snippets
you've been scratching on pages lately.

What I learned
after 398 pages of poorly constructed criticism and self help
is that the reason you aren't writing
isn't because you're scared you won't get published
you can't pick a subject
or you don't have any time.
"Don't try to dissect the moment, or it'll be gone."
The reason you can't write right now
is because you won't let yourself ****.
Be bad, have a beer, and eat a lot
it'll make you feel better
than writing something flawless the first time through.

I mean you already know everything you need to know by now.
So just write
and **** at it-
it'll be worth it.
Trust me.

If I died would you shed a tear?
If I cried would you be near?
If I was hurt would you nurse me to health?
If I was poor would you share your wealth?
If I loved you would you love me too?
If I was feeling down would you be feeling blue?
If we ever argued would you still be my friend?
If you would our Friendship will never end.

I like who I
Am when I
Am with
You.