In my every day travels of traveling on
I found a mood ring on the side of the road
Instead of my pocket where things I find go
I was put in the mood to put the ring on

Immediately it went from orange to pink
Happy with my find
It's not everyday you run across a treasure like this
Outside of the five-and-dime

Every minute or two I kept checking my mood
To see just how I felt
Between bouncing back the red and the black
Getting nervous I was overly stressed

Deciding to actively seek my mood ring to green
I went light blue instead
I had no problem with that as a matter of fact
With the feeling of being relaxed

Still I'd like to go back to the mood I was in
Before I  knew about it
So I took a detour a smart move for sure
And dropped the ring back where I found it

sometime it is
in the act of writing
that we create the sense
of what we want to say

as if the process of articulation
    when we are fishing for the proper words
is generating meaning
inventing itself in its own genesis

leaving the poet amazed

sometimes even the readers

hands intertwined on the street
and feet in perfect sync.
locked in their own
bubbles of love.
unaware of the world
rotting underneath their feet.
heads so far up their *****
that they can't see, as time passes
their bones are appearing
under stretched skin.
because love makes you sick
and nothing lasts.
so when they are left
their hearts burst forth
from empty chests.
Death.
but I know all this,
so I'll tell you once

*Turn a blind eye to lovers
because in this lifetime
there isn't happily ever after.

Shoulds
Have horns
And ram reindeer with
Thistle bush antlers

I grow
From the seeds of others
Leaf green
As lilac winter tells me.

And the advice of others
Protects
Culpability from
The mouth of a sweet whisper.

Shoulds
Grow fangs
And live in dark forests
I know this to be their opinion.

I live
Longer longings
I rise
With every new day

And they, are still there
Dressed in soft leather,
Stirring teas and
Ready to tell me paths ahead

Predicting the worst weather
Without knowing the storm
They condone.
Advice.

I hate my wandering lips and all of the people they have kissed
I hate all the times my mouth has calmed the nerves of someone else
To heal their wounds while simultaneously hurting myself
I hate the lack of love and the soul ******* power one unfamiliar kiss has on me
I hate the next morning and the empty dull ache in my head
And the smell of my breath like some wilting flowers
Growing hot and moldy in the sun
I hate kissing without love
I thought I would grow numb but instead
I am the only one with feelings left
My emotions will rush me to my death

the moon in your eyes
the stars in your heart
your red lips open in a drunk smile 
in a trepidatious waiting
for a dawn that you still  didn’t see
for a sunset that you still didn’t  live
you're waiting
that the sun will warm you
that the sea will lull you    
you're waiting
crossed by a subtle pleasure ..
an excited fear .. 
that everything vanishes
as in a dream upon awakening
but the dawn
the sunset
the heat
the sea
so yearned for ..
worthless now !
finally
you feel
slipping on your rainbow
a kaleidoscopic emotion
while your eyes stars at his
both closed in a bubble

Some days you surface into,
and there's no distracting yourself from
that irrefutable inevitability that
- ultimately -
entropy will win.
No quantity of
authentic artisan coffee or online memes
or juicing can
pull you out of the
black hole gravity
of that one truth.
The evidence is everywhere:
the spiteful confusion of electrical cables
your sleep-stupid fingers
fumble and fail to untangle;
the mold on the bread you
swore would keep a few more days;
the putrid, burst-open remains of
a pink armchair, left to rot in a
stranger's front garden;
the scavenging army of crows that loiters,
waiting for you to die and, in the
meantime, walks ****** little footprints
around your eyes;
the oxidation of
so many dreams.

It's inescapable.
Might as well root for the winner.
Embrace the decay.
Take photographs of
rust, smashed glass, peeling paint, dead flowers.
Learn to love faded colours and the feel
of broken things.
Catalogue your most
interesting scars and mutilations.
And, while you can,
write poetry.