Losing physical weight as my
Mind expands.
I have been mouth for as long
As I can remember,

Now let me be hands. Hands, so
I may release you and hunger on.
Blessed be all things un-eternal.
I can only sleep in burning houses.

Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic, she asks.  
I shrug with a slight smile.  

Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.

What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain

Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer

Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the

Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves

How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, *not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum

With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains

All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.

So. Wanna go out for a pint?*
That's what my dad says
Every time we board a plane
To England.

We do everything thoroughly.
Used to go every year, now
His pension only allows every
Other.

It's only right for him if he
Pays. I long since stopped arguing.
He gets tired from walking and
Sightseeing, but his eyes have that

Boyishness during it all that
Makes me believe in a God that
Rewards deserving old men with
Youth towards the end of old age.

They wrote about you.
Named you Goddess and  
Lifted you high above the

Imagined boundaries of your
Spirit and ***.
No longer seeming as little as

You always felt. Well...
The rains came; you became
Umbrella.

Cinderella's indecisive cousin.
Wet now, and not in the
Good, hot way.

Workmen's sweat fresh from
Frustrated chests upon your ever
Forgiving back.

Heathens in the temple.
Berserkers in the
Cathedral.

Male pens, shovels and clamps
Made for grabbing and digging,
Holding up towards God's Skies

And proclaiming, not "Her,"
But: "Mine!"
I've seen it as it is.

Oh, I know. I've been a lifter.
Shoving goddesses into brick sized
Holes, praising the solid

Wall.
You deserve better. Take it from
Iron:

There is not enough
Gold in your
Life.

Poor girl.
In love with Poet.

Poet and man; angry at times;
Firing insults you can't

Possibly
Counter.

Beating you black and blue
With flowers
And feathers.

Poor girl.
Loved by Poet.

Loved and held closest;
First to fall victim

To every sudden movement
In matters of hearts
And hands.

Norwegian Independence Day.
And 200th anniversary.

After the Black Plague in 1349
We fell under Denmark.

1814 there were many enough of
Us to start anew.

The Constitution was written a
Fifteen minute drive from

Here. The heart of the country. And
Here I sit. Outside. Shirt on the

Ironing board. Sun in the face.
So much green it's an ocean of fields

And foliage. Under my bare feet I
Feel the strong, steady

Pulse of the Land. Like that of a
Mother's to an unborn.

Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.  
Closest.  

Happy Birthday, Mother.  
I'm here.

I pulled the curtains aside.
Laser sunset.
Clouds crimson through
Orange peel lit mists.  

Some city-in-the-clouds-
Sci-fi-scenery. Phiew.
Then, my focus shifted
To the crown of the much closer

Cherry tree;
Insects swirling in dance.
One score of Tinkerbells dancing
With one miniscule Peter Pan each.

One loving one
Loving another.
I smiled into the detailed sunset.
I smiled at the whirlwind

Of insects.
I smiled out of
My own everyday
Window.

How silly is the
Poet... Feasting from eyes
To heart. Tears, trembling hands
And all. At "nothing."

I wasn't showing my teeth
To frighten you.

I was preparing to
Carry you again. Cub.

To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...

My passport says I'm 1.89
Metres tall. I carry pallet jacks
Up stairs at work.

I can bench press 130 kg
On a good day, about 30 more
Than I weigh.

I can punch through three layers
Of sheet rock, still I just
Picked up my cat

And held her a good while.
Because I needed
A hug.

He stood on her doorstep, flowers in hand.
In coat of his father's, resembling a man.
Still queenless a king, now he stands like a slave.
Flowers in hand, resembling a grave.

We fed the sparrows.
They were the size of their eggs.

She traced the muscles of my
Arm with a nail painted

Satanic black, then rested her river
Of hair of equal tone against my shoulder.  

Didn't need to whisper
Anything. We were both there.

Who you are under
A cloudless sky,
Is uninteresting.

Show me a smile through
Drenched hair, wet to
Raindropped lips,

And I'll fall for you,
Knowing you won't care
Why now,

But carry on smiling at the
Rain. So
Carelessly

It begins
To doubt
Itself.

Sweet irony
I hurt myself
Daily
Building.

I fear no living thing, nor dead.
No monsters hide beneath my bed.
I've heard and seen my share
Of ghosts. I find them harmless;

More than most of all that
Walks and thinks and breathes,
That carries blades or guns, and
Bleeds. But all I find a fright to be

Is resting deep inside of me.
There's Weakness there, it's hiding
Well, it's cunning, slippery, strong
As hell. There's Fury too; a

Juggernaut -awakened by a single
Thought. But enemy to them is Soul,  
Its agent's name is Self Control.
It cages them with Love and Care,

And ties them down with
Self-Aware.

Girl of imagery, of MacBook and Photoshop.  
In a Skype conference with designers and
Project Managers across
Europe,  

Smiling to me when I enter the room
Quietly; she's working. I was in Sweden
With the guys. Bragging. She's good for
You, they said, raising

Beer cans around the fire. Woman
Accepted, dear brother!
A little too drunk, I felt, to phone her from
The hill with reception. No need. She'd

Texted me: Sverre, I am perfect for you;
As you are for me. I adore your energy
Around me. The thought of you
Dances around in my head

Like my last marble, playing pinball with
My insecurities and confidences,
Scoring, then dropping, being
Thrusted back out, making PINGS and

PONGS, and my knees weak. I love taking
Care of you, between all your cares taken of
Me. By Odin, I love you, my one true
Man.

Woman, you turn down all other
Volumes, leaning back with eyes closed
When I read for you. Naming me poet,
But I see now; there's not a medium in

This world you cannot tame and utilize.
I've painted with you, now write with me.
You are a rock star superwoman.
All I can teach you, is that attitude.

Every line on my face
is one drawn between
myself and my
conscience, then
crossed.

Girl, it is summer in just a few months.
Springtime -a newborn that screams.
World will be warmer with wildness in hunt.
Winds wave away winter dreams.

Girl, we could sleep just as normal would be.
Awaken when sun chases moon.
But baby tonight, let's get lost in the night,
Let's get dressed, see the sun's setting soon.

Boy, you will say, not a scene have I seen
That scares me and still owns my eyes
The way this is cut from the textile of dreams,
You were right; I did not realize.

You'll see elk in the moonlight; not sensing us there,
Bats between branches in dance.
All playing near to the river down here,
Like some unwitnessed rural romance.

But more than the Wild, there are mysteries still,
Of nature beyond what we know.
Of trolls and of elves and of creatures that will
Only let nighttime them show.

Let's get lost in the woods, find our animal roots,
I will go there with you if you might. By
When Sun lights her flame, we will not be the same.
Let's get lost in the woods tonight.

You get those long cheek
Kisses from the girls.
Pats on the shoulder; it's nearly
Strange for them to see you
Alone.

Friends stating obvious things
You'll live through this too.
I will. Just a few stages to
Go through
First.
She's any other man's to
Have now.
I feel the love in her gone.
Her relief that she's out.
She'll never love me again.

~

There. She's gone.
It's in her eyes.

They look at me like
I'm always standing
In her way.

An annoying statue.
Badly carved and uncared for.

Art without
Art.

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As you've ever been.
Re-engage your safety.
Holster your stress.
Your car is a gun.
Your key the trigger.

Two ton hollow-points flying
Down every street in the world; lead
In search of potential tissue.

The father witnessed his own heart
-Shape and weight of a five-year-old-
Break into molecules midplay
On the parking lot
Under a blind reverse.
Perhaps the groceries blocked her view.
Clip emptied in a split second.
Your car is a gun.
Your car is a gun, a child's tunnel vision
As narrow as the barrel of a .22.
Aim carefully, away from people.
Squeeze, don't pull. You hold lives with
Your steering wheel. Destinies under your feet.
Every turn you make has room for tragedy.
Your car is a gun.
A hot, smoking gun.

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As they are to put something so
Small in the ground
And return with heavy unhealable hearts
To a house
That won't see them smile
For another five.

(Monday morning, on the roof of an Oslo construction site.)

~

Seagull. Filthy peace flag screaming
His own name upon the city.

It is I! Eater of scraps, leaver of
Droppings!

Sword beak, dagger tallons!
Anti-raven! White blood cell of

Your airborne bloodstream.
The skies would be half a chess

Board in my absence!
I sit on the rooftop drinking water,

Listening to him echo between
Tired buildings.

Norwegian city morning.
Sunny and cold.

I watch the red of mist muffled light
On his wings as he soares towards

The bay for his fifth breakfast.
Today will be an interesting day,

I whisper to my soul as I empty the
Bottle and stand up.

A conductor tapping his baton against
His note stand, raising hands and an

Eyebrow to the orchestra.
Get your Monday in tune, and the week

Will follow accordingly.
Seagull. Filthy peace flag.

Declaring himself victorious
With his every forceless breath.

~

Winter introduced itself like a
Sudden death in the family.
A -28 degrees celsius day has fingers
Thin enough to reach through glass,
Leaving its ice on the inside of
Windows.

I find candles and carry firewood,
Preparing for a cold one.
Out here, blackouts can last for a day.
My iPad and portable modem have
Battery enough for one
Poem.

Such are my priorities.
I empty my fridge into the snow,
Thanking the gods
For my beer.
Don't try to reach me. I'm remembering
Life from centuries ago.

I am completely alone.
Even threw out the cat.  
She'll just hide under the stairs and
Hope the randy male farm cat

Is in the woods. I unplug all
Appliances to **** any buzzing.
The silence is a mass in my ears.
I only hear birds. The swallows I

Love. Doves and crows. Sparrows
And a dusin unknown to me.
This is the "Off" in Time Off.

Feet so high I don't even
Think to drink.
Complete balance.

Like some future samurai
Zen master.
Unfearing of anything.

Scandinavian summer
Paradise.
Norwana.

I wonder why the dead only
Pass through my bedroom
Goosebumping my exposed arm,
When I'm alone.

It's as if they won't disturb us, or
Know they'd startle her a lot more
Than they do me.
They're as unsensational to me as

Any gust of wind; falling stars
Leaving temporary tails on the night
Skies like salamanders escaping the
Grasp of a hungry atmosphere.

Faceless footsteps, doors opening,
Invisible tenants at times nudging  
Me awake, whispering wordlessly:
Did you blow out that last candle,

Young man?
Creaking walls, blinking lights.
I welcome them with warm
Sincerity. Dead or alive,

A fleeting mist in an old room
Or flesh and blood speaking only
Of times long gone over lukewarm
Tea; I always respect my elders.

By Paula Lee and Sverre G. Holter

Today I grieve for a love gone,
No reason why, No goodbyes....
Now here I stand on the precipice,
Alone,
Confused,
Tears in my eyes,
Why?

I find I lay my hand on
My own heartside.
You did that once, I remember;
I slept so silently
You had to
Check.
Tears in my eyes.
I know why.

I would give all I own
To feel your love once more,
To hold in my hands, your gift,
The heart I have always adored
On bended knees,
Longing,
Begging!
Tears in my eyes,
Why?

I wish I could tell you why,
But The Question is my lover;
The Answer, my ex.
There's an absence the size and
Shape of a heart by your side.
I hear hands gone knocking on
Doors that never closed; the
Sound of love against
Love.

*You have left me, with no hope,
No heart to hold, no love to share,
You had my heart, so full and pure
Giving yours away to an ex, not there!
You pushed me over the edge
I lay broken at the bottom,
Tears in my eyes...
No More!

I have more than seventeen
Poems that
Mention me watching
You draw
-
Tracksuit pants
My sweater
Knitted socks
Ponytail
Colouring in some creation
With the tip of your
Tongue peeking out
From the side of your mouth
As always when
Concentrating
-
Light from the stove
Flicking curiously
Upon your person
Dry firewood heat in
Contrast to the outside
Midwinter
Beading our foreheads
At times
We were that old couple
On the picture
You cried when
I showed you
-
You are in truth the most
Beautiful person
I've ever consumed
With my every
Sense
You made me
Giant
Hero
Loved
Admired
Forgiven
For so long

I'll miss you.
*******, little girl.
I'm really
Going to
Miss
You.

I believe that every tree; every swallow;
Every breath of clean air that I draw

Accepts the love I feel towards it,
And responds in my everyday life,

The way any "god" would. 
Thank you for your love. This is for you.

That smile from a stranger; that money
I found, that favourite song of mine on

The radio, was a hug from the trees
(**** human-huggers) of my

Home farm dirt road
Alley, where I walked today

Asking myself how at home a man
Can feel, kissing it all with my eyes.

My everyday life...
That insignificant, poor place

Where my every amazing treasure lies
Unhidden.

Spoiled with having you
Within my reach,
I keep nearly catching
The dark figure
Of your ghost in the corner of
My eye.

Seeing myself in the mirror,
You are shower-naked
Before me,
Looking back from glass; inviting.

Don't be sweet. Not gentle.
My bones were built for battle.

Empty air where warmth
Was days ago; now
A vacuum the size and shape
Of love and lust responded to.

I lean my face on sofa roughness
Where black silk strands
Of hair would tickle it.
Your fingers are not here to
Search; find, utilize the Access
All Areas pass of

The black ceramic ring
You wear.
Neither is your mouth to tell me

To shut the hell up and
Lean back into the
Winter night that blushes
And turns away smiling.

Hours like aeons.
Decade seconds.
Yearning is not boring,
Yet your absence is the opposite
Of fun.
All I have are memories, and
Tomorrow.

Thank the gods I have tomorrow.
Thank the gods, we have
Tomorrow.

I'll dream then too.
Then open my eyes and mouth,
And thank out loud.

*"Real."

Tears serve a purpose.
Preserve your water.
There will be days so dry
You'll cry vapour.

Tears serve a purpose.
Put pressure on your heart
Until the bleeding stops.
Get up and dance along.

Baby steps in the right direction.
All you know of this place is
It's between horizons.
Why so sad, little one?

Tears serve a purpose.
They're yesterdays leaving
The present. Blurring your vision
When looking back.

That's not where you're heading.
Come. There's more this way.
You'll smile. You'll laugh until
You cry.

Until your tears serve their purpose.

This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.

Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth

Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.

It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.

The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:  
It is perfectly free.

In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.

Shhh..little poet.
Why so angry?
I know you hurt; it comes with
Caring.

Black is a beautiful colour
When used for emphasizing
Contrast.
Alone it is a candle
In a dark room,
Unlit.

Life bites, kicks, pulls your hair
And puts its pointy fingers in your
Eyes laughing.

Other times it is a sleeping lion,
Warm and soft to the touch; too
Full and drowzy with sunlight
To anything but purr.

When Life bares its teeth,
Remember how much a grin
May resemble a growl.

Tell me how it feels to
Scratch the King of the Jungle
Behind its palm-sized ear.

All that glitters
Is gold.

Shhh...little poet.
Why so angry?
There is more to Life
Than life.

Your skin pale from
Winter. Smooth as
Female Nature Herself; as silk,
Yet warm as young
Motherhood, electric
As newlywed love.

I whisper improvised poetics
Between lips that know each
Pore of your perfect person.
I kiss clichés on your cheekbone,
Nouns on your nose.
Bury my face in your sweet
Eternities of seraphim scented hair,
And pray that the poem
I leave on your parchment skin
Remains unread by
Other readers.
You wrap your covers around
Me, unfolding, then folding,
               Unfolding, then folding,
Like a slowing butterfly mid-
Butterflight.

And I add a poem to everything,
As always.
A poem the exact size of a
Lady loved, -the sound of
Waves of Wish upon Thank,
And the weight of
The world's only
Actual
Church.

Stars falling like burning hailstones.
Not one wish formed
From the ashes below.

Earth stretches and yawns; scratches
A continent finally
Free from fleas, then

Returns to solitaire sleep while
Epochs enter into aeons
Before the itching

Ever so slowly begins again;
Species rise to reign in the usual
Pre-apocalyptic illusions of

Meaning, denying being merely a
Planetary slap away from a crushed
Stain of the blood it once ******.

I never feel as in place and balanced
As when my insignificance looks me
Dead in the eye. And winks.

They say no love is perfect.
How could anything be imperfect
When love is pulling even the frailest of
Strings attached?

Whether that be a lifeline, a noose, or the
Electrical cord to its own
Respirator, its final word would be
A smiled whisper of either

Hope or rememberance.
Gratitude is grace.
Even diamonds decompose.
Breath gives meaning to air.

You visit me at work.
I kiss you hello without
My workwear staining your

Outfit. You put on hardhat
And steel tipped boots
And follow through

Corridors of neatly demolished
Offices prepared for
Rebuilding.

This is my life during the
Everydays. These rough walls
Are my home away from our

Homes. Now you have a face
To the name of my Work.
I think of us. How

Demolition hurts. How
The clean up is hard, ***** labour.
We have a few ghosts left from

Previous days. Here, take gloves
And a shovel. I'll help you carry.
Then I'll help you rebuild.

I walk around touching.
I walk around touching objects
-Hanging or resting-
That carry shards of our
History in their origin.
My hands remember
The warmth of your back
Against my palm.
Sun lotion between my fingers,  
Denmark. Summer.
You tasted like xcide and your  
Mother's Marlboro Light.
Laughed.
Kissed me;
Soft but hard. Soul to my soul.
We were so completely happy.

This quill pen you made me
To inspire my words.
Draw us with your poetry.
To write about you drawing
A picture of me writing
About you.
Taking in; transferring.
I've written you
Volumes.
Volumes.

Picture.
I touch and smile.
Trace your face with
My fingers, your
Mouth. My God, your
Mouth...
You let me touch your
Teeth when you smiled.
I cried then, even during the
Good years.

I take it in. Dig deeper in memories
To strain my soul, and tattoo... and
Claim these moments as
Mine forever; graven into
The marble tablets of
My mourning mind.
Feeling the farewell with
My every fibre
And gaping, face soaking wet,
At the Heavens in a
Silent scream of
**** You God! She's gone!
GONE! FUUUUUUUCK!

Like some kind of miner or
****** of some sorts
Craving pain and beauty in
Equal handfulls,
Tearing and ripping
At the remains of something
That just days ago
Wasn't dead.

She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.

Today I crave something
Soft. Her warm skin against
My face. Softly whispered
Commands, such as

Come. Rest. Dream. Feel
Safe. Her warm hands; fingers
Whispering kisses on my back as I
Drift away,

But remain inside.
These concrete floors, brick walls,
Ice cold steel of tools, all
Unfriendly; unwelcoming.

I am a child unwilling to be
Born into it all.
Let me stay
Inside,

Where everything is soft.
Soft as strands of silken fog on  
Water. Soft as a grandmother's
Love, monastery choir song,

An infant's evening prayers,
Teddybears and doll's hair.
Zen poetry; fields of flowers.
Mountain dreaming itself unstone.

The time has come to hang up both
My party going boots.
35 and still alive, now
It is time to choose.
I've lost a little, still I have so
Much I yet could lose.
Hang those habits one by one,
Refuse to not refuse.

It will take a lot more than
An apple every day
To keep the doctor and the reaper
One scythe's length away.
I like it here, to live and breathe,
But how long I can stay
Depends on just how well I turn
And change my poison ways.

So here I sit, a bachelor fresh
With best friend at my side.
We drink and sing and celebrate,
And toast to those who died.
The final little binge, a bang,
Like last time that we tried.
(Sobriety is better faced
With alcohol inside.)

She's having a bad day
The way only women do.
I pile all our pillows in the
Wall corner of our bed.
Carry her into it,
Cover her with both
Our duvets.
Comfort womb.

...and there it is.
That smile I remember
The way one remembers green
Waves pounding
Wet rock
Outside Warrnambool, Australia.

Friend so beautiful and thoroughly
Good; angelic/demonically opposite.
I must have been equally good
And beautiful in some earlier life;
Surely not in this
One.

So you prove that kharma is real.
I dread to imagine who you were
Last lifetime, having
Blossomed like this in this one.
Diamond laughter.
Eyes that view the world the

Way a child witnesses its first
Circus; clowns, dancing elephants
And all.
Italian queen of Norway.
Born to conquer,  
Knowing nothing but love

And anything else worth
Knowing.
I bow unto no man,
Yet the dusts before your
Feet carry the print of my humble
Forehead.

Every tree you touched recalls.  
Even within the space between
The things you do and
Don't, there are graces and the breaths
Of Gods.
You mirror the unreflectable.

Never stop laughing.
That sound might very well be the
Glue that keeps this dimension
Attached to the heart and
Soul of
Itself.

The less concerned with your
Own well-being you
Are,

The more others
Will be with
Yours.

Thunder echoes.  
Flashes through billions
Of hailstones smashing against
Trees, leaving clouds of

Crushed leaves hanging, slowly
Blending into the chaos of
Angry weather, then: Nothing.
I worry for my windows,

Pounded with ice and shaking
From relentless thunder.
Nature, now, is an angry
Woman,

Child, heirloom or love stolen.
Furious fire, skies dark with a
Thousand wings.
Drop your swords and run,

Men. Your homes are in
Flames. Your armours as
Useless as your wet pairs of
Long johns.

I don't believe in blasphemy;
There's simply no such thing to me.
A god, as far as I can see,
Would see the ugly irony.

Created it, in fact, I fail
To picture any ego frail
Behind whose name the angels sing;
The Lord of everything.

To take a life with said excuse:
He did my saviour's name abuse,
And end a human violently...
Now that, my friend, is blasphemy.

She raises her glass of red
To the moon.

Each mirror the other.
Like lake surfaces;

The laughing eyes of old
People together, and

Other things that shine.
Her friend since forever.

A mother; she holds galaxies
In her heart, supernovas within.

The moon is her only witness.
And I.

I believe in ghosts.
I want to.
I believe in all gods; therefore

None.
I believe in both the survival and
Demise of Mankind.

I believe in the perfection within
Every shard and smithereen.  
Existence is

Excellence.
Stop. Stop correcting yourself
To pieces.

You don't need to drop those sizes.
You don't need those wrinkles
Gone.

You don't need that stanza to
Rhyme; to reverberate; to shine
Standing out like

Embraces on a battlefield.
Everything created is an
Infant. Approve of it.

Adore it. Admire it.
Love your child, and
Forgive it. For

All it
Refuses
To be.