The poet is an architect
he constructs sentences.

The poet is a cook
he mixes words.

The poet is a philosopher
he reflects on what he writes.

The poet is a student
he learns words.

But above all.

The poet has no definition
he defines himself.

1.
Unique as we are
No person has the same scar
don't think where so distinct
Even enemys share a similar link
Reading and writing
Seeing a world that is uniting
Taking this vision
And started impleting it to stop divsion
Naturally craving to be understood
Do know what it brings, only good

2.
Unique as we are
No person has the same scar
Don't think where so distinct
Even enemys share a similar link
Reading about this world and began writing
Seeing a world that is so uninviting
Taking sides but for the same reason
And accusing the otherside of treason
Now fighting to be understood
Do try lisenting, if only a person would

3.
United we could be
Never if we don't listen
Don't just disagree
Even if that person gives a dark glisten
Really give a good look
Standing is this foe
Tired of being mistook
And a person we could know
Now wait for a turn
Do listen and people will learn

4.
Underwater we all sit
Now more than ever were impatient
Do we not see our flames so brightly lit
End after end be patient
Right now we want to be heard
So please just try and hear
Try to speak but it seems blurred
And soon comes along the fear
Now talk and they will understand
Demand much and get much so be able to withstand

Once, the word was a whisper
carved into a cave wall
by a man who saw lightning
and wanted to marry it.
He did not know grammar,
but he knew:
****.
It is the sound a soul makes
when it remembers it left the stove on
in a past life.
It is a sneeze of truth,
a hiccup of the cosmos,
a four-letter eclipse
of reason and restraint.
“****,” says the poet,
when words betray him.
“****,” says the scientist,
when atoms refuse to behave.
It is the punctuation of panic,
the jazz note in an otherwise silent scream,
the laugh-track of God.
It means everything
when you don’t mean anything,
and it means nothing
when you feel everything.
It is both
the crime
and the confession.
The knock, the door, the absence of door.
So how do you write it?
You don’t.
You exhale it through clenched teeth
as you fall in love with a mistake.
You etch it into the back of a napkin
after three whiskeys and a revelation.
You scream it into a pillow
until the pillow understands.
Then you kiss it.
And never speak of it again.

I read it twice, I still didn’t get it
I did not receive the message
I couldn’t understand the meaning

You poured in your heart
And I left it, torn apart
Because some things don’t resonate
Until it’s once again too late

And you made up your mind
While I stayed behind

Always too slow to make up my mind
Staring at the lines once more,
They look back like a locked door,
I tried knocking, but not sure what for.

Poems are like puzzles in crypts
You write in metaphors
And I respond too literally

And interstellar that didn’t align
A story written that wasn’t mine

And now there’s just silence,
Where insight should have been.
I held something breakable And didn’t feel it within.

What is hunted for?
For who is searched for?
What is sought?

From nature: knowledge - compassion.

From the cosmos: companions - patience.

he had this light in his eyes.
i never thought i would see “home” so vividly
until i looked into those eyes
those sweet brown eyes
filled with light.

i look into your eyes now
searching for the light he had
and i see nothing

i ask you thousands of questions
to understand you
like i understood him-
or so i thought i did-
but you say nothing

you make me smile
but not laugh like he did
volcanic eruptions of pure bliss
now valleys of yearning

i fear i’ve gone too far
and i can’t go back to him
what would he say anyways?
he still wouldn’t want me
though i was so sure he did

and you’re smiling at me
and you’re complimenting me
but i’m looking right past you
trying to see if i can see him
through the crowds and swarms of people

you look at me, and i smile back
but i’m staring into your deep brown eyes
searching for a light
that only he had

The darkness that's growing and swirling around.
The pain in my shoulder, that will not go down.

Is it a weakness, that's deep inside me.
In need of forgiveness, in which to be free.

Those parts of me careless, I need to forgive.
Authentic expression, in order to live.

Mindful experience, absorbing the pain.
acceptance of growth throughout all you attain.

Crafting to mindfully, heal from within.
Clearing of things I won't need, to begin.

Think about breathing, and being just one.
This loving reunion will come from the sun.