In a war of arrows
Her heart was found.
Flaccid were the stem attached to the pointed tips.
Soaring the height of love.
Crashing down in a turbulent ******.
Flung from tight strings, bended wood.
The ground lay covered in the aftermath of thrill seeking
Underneath the shadow.
A shaman hung his head in such complex circumstances
An addiction to abuse

It's ironic
I make doors all day,
but i never get to open them.
I see hope in a sea full of island-men
But  none of them will send for it.

Run
Run little boy
Try not to look around at the ones around you
They are staring.

Run
Run little man
He ran, so you run, because you're afraid.

Run,
And keep running

my soul is poetry.

the inner linings are the stanzas
strong and protecting against the white barrier of a page
or the inevitability of time

it flows like free verse
or runs like rhymes
never stopping, never starting, endless against the hourglass
which is my beating heart

the hollows of my chest are the words I never say out loud
but I spill out on paper like the confessions of a sinner
it is there they are finally allowed eternal rest
and are free from damnation

I am the twists and turns of a sonnet
a side stepped soliloquy
a dead end didactic

I am this
the words i write
the things i feel
the being i am

and i am poetry