Grey
Black
White
I put on shy colors
Over an overbearing personality
Having a dash of excitement in shoe colors
I step to my own individuality

My poems
My children
They are one and the same
I name my poems as if they are alive
For if I expect others to care for them like I do
They deserve to be declared pronouns
By their creators
My children
My poems

I tried to write you a poem,
But all I could think about were your eyes
Give me a minute
I need to enjoy the view

I want you to know
Being unrealistic
Being risky
Being hazardous
It's a lifestyle

I swore off the L word

I would've said it for you

They say it's wise
to never fall in love with
a poet.
They say a poet is
troubled and hurt
that they are constantly
tortured.
They say a poet is in love
with everybody at once,
that if you fall,
you're nothing special.
They say a poet despises
the human condition.
They say a poet doesn't have
money and never will.
They say a lot of things about
poets.
But I'm sure they've never heard
what a poet has to say about them.
Because if they did,
they would find it impossible
not to love a poet.

I fell in love
with the girl with
auburn hair.
She wore her wool coat
tied tight around her
waist as she held
a cigarette
slowly drawing on it,
making the embers
glow brilliantly in the dark.
I stared into her eyes
that cascaded into marvelous
pools of renowned beauty,
that had been structured perfectly,
by the gods themselves.
These eyes were untouched by
human hands.
She gave me a smile and
we talked for hours about
nothing
as I watched her
draw me in, along
with every puff of that
cigarette,
and together we burned,
down to the filter,
as we were flung to the ground,
and crushed effortlessly,
under her foot.

In 2008,
I lay upon the floor,  
disabled,
pain hobbled,
my back
unable to properly space
the Lego discs
that keep a man
upright


king and absolute ruler,
was I
of the carpet.
in the little blue room
off the kitchen,
where solace
in loneliness,
was my little
heaven in hell.

It was my blue period,
When you decided to leave
And try to take everything
But hang around our apartment
to practice, practice
making misery your profession.

It was the same
little blue room,
years before
I ran to,
for a few hours rest
after tending to you,
nursing your cancer needs,
fetching, most fetching,
I fetched and fluffed,
shopped and tended,
and comforted,
after working all day.

Now three years on,
on the floor
of the same little blue room,
unable to move,
weakly, wounded,
brokebacked,
I was a soldier,
in a deep trench,
almost paralyzed,
caught tween desk and bed
called your name,
even though there was
nothing you could have done.

Role reversal,
years later,
roll reversal,
roll from the bed to the floor,
fallen, immobilized,
I rued
the morning light,
for men must work and
women must weep,
work and weep,
this morning,
I was responsible for both.

I called you name repeatedly,
in a peculiar voice, agreed,
the voice of wrack and ruination,
after hearing you slippers
shuffle a two step at 2 Am,
outside the little blue room,
oh for many a minute,
in the middle of the night,
calling, calling
perhaps, you would help
me to rise,
oh yes,
just to help me stand,
on my bent back,
my own legs

Somehow one finds a way,
is it not always that way?

Later, I asked.

Did you hear me call you name
in the middle of the night?

Oh yes.
But your voice sounded so weird,
I would not go in.

Years later, I asked again.

Just get over it,
you replied,
matter of factly.

Today, years later,
I ask again,
right now, right here,
I ask
but a different question.

Do you think I am over it now?

Oct 15th 2011