I wish we would write more.
Physical letters, I mean,
To show who we care for,
Instead of expressing ourselves by machine.
Because there's something about
Ink on a page,
And painstakingly writing it out
But... that's so rare in this age.

Are we truly connected
If you only ever tell me through text?
I suppose it's expected
but it leaves me perplexed
How can it be true?
If it's just pixels on a screen
Words with no value,
On the face of a machine.

Don't you detest
Our online obsession,
Conversations compressed
And a loss of connection

Define her
And striking words will come out of your mouth
Like a cover of a beguiling book
Look at it and you’ll find it on your hands
Read it
But take heed
For pages are torn apart

I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.

old poets
never die
nor do they
fade away
they live
on and on
every time
you turn
the page

You said you ain't got nothing
Just to put your hands on
No rhyme, no song to sing,
Nor place to hide or hut to build,
Have no sacrifice nor strength to feel,
And though you tried so bad
I know It's been so hard to tell
That you're almost gone
That you're hardly standing straight.

You said you surely don't need
Any more time for yourself to bleed
And I heard you spent hours
Sittin' on the shore,
You stood back up with words
That the last book you wrote
Is almost done.

I think the words have left me.*
they've crawled out my ears
and pooled in my eyes only to spill
down
my cheeks,
and drip down my chin only to splatter
against
the page in black blotches
that mean nothing.