little red drops of pain
dripping again.

and i'm sipping on
the salt, telling my
brain, that there's a name
i need to burn.

I'm cold, and that's not a lie,
like the ocean i hold, of
delusion, and petty illusions,
that creates a ripple, in the
pond, and i find myself adrift,
and so on my own. in this
confusion.

give me knowledge,
questions. answers are
for scientists and the
redundant. i have an
abundance of those.

i hold myself close.
like thorns to a rose,
i'm my own sin,
nothing ever more.

i am sure, there's a door
somewhere to the light.
somewhere on the right,
away from sight and wrongs-
i've heard so many songs
about kisses and stars,
of names and scars,
i need something else.

i need a new galaxy,
to hold on-to and learn,
to cherish and then burn.

because it is only, i, here,
and i'm not the only one.

I woke to see soft
warm speckles of snowy dust
Gently falling down

you give me waaay too much credit;
u are investment; a great poet,
needing tending and nurture,
watering and encouragement;
since god could not be everywhere,
he made sure many poets exist
to tend
to their fellow's seeds
~~
the problem with seeds
they don't come with a guarantee
from the manufacturee,
or a note from home
for the teacher,
that makes ''my dog et it''
slightly more believable,
each a new babe seedy needy,
crying in the mid of night,
for water and loving attention
as it teethes roots in the soil,
and
the discourteously majority
fail to appear even if you read them
good night moon, nightly

you must plant ten,
hoping one child,
will sprite sprout
and even then,
survive the outrageous misfortunes of  natures
bumps and beaks of the day and night
that lurk about in a
disarmingly charmingly
destructive way

did i say ten?  
idiot.
plant a hundred
just to obtain one germination.

I think the seed guys have
conned us pretty good
the odds
truly ****
as you, the champion children
like to say nowadays,
and **** they are,
too right

sun I cannot control:
water and soil, I can,
for if n'ere to rain,
your seeds will be
well fed,
well read,
and the water,
my eyes will supply
naturally

A regards to the singlular
Chaos,
But life dwelling is not a
Trek alone:

   I forecast order in a feminine
Touch that clouds the menacing
Aloness,
That order feminine
Which will throw away old
Things lukewarm in my
Memory,
The old cup that barely bears
The insignia of my team,
An order feminine which will
Prearrange all the chaos
And let me fill it's orders,
A space all my own,
A dusty garage
And all the feminine order
Will not follow me there,
But direct like a good woman
Does pushing behind every man.

An oder feminine like the sweet
Smelling home she scents
As with everything she touches,
    The chaos will never truly
Die,
It will slumber and awaken a few times a week,
An occasional game and fire and meat,
And filling in the time
Between the spaces,
An order feminine
Diguises a brute and differs
Into a man.