If I were only to write,
Something nonsensical,
Filled up with passion
And half-baked metaphor,
If only, I would give up
My perfectionism
And logical poetic applications.
Why must I overthink?
Why must I think at all
About something
That is so simply,
Meant to be felt?

perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

Yes, But Do You Know You Deserve the World

Through the sunshine and the rainbows,
through the dark and stormy nights,
your light shone the brightest,
and whomever it touched, it lit their world.

And in that light, do you know

you deserve the yellow of the sunflower below?
Your gleeful smile thawed the frost in the air,
rushing into me and all around me—
like the fresh breath of air on a winter morning,
like drops of water slipping through a cracked rock,
carrying beauty in an ethereal glow.

And maybe you don’t see it,

you changed me and the world around you.
Your words carried a voice of reason,
filled with warmth and understanding—
sometimes childish and playful,
but always fiercely protective,
like the sunflower guarding its yellow.

So I tell you again,
your eyes shine bright like the stars above
Your radiant smile took the blue out of my day,
set butterflies to dance in the world’s wake
Even when your cries dampened the world below,
in my eyes you still appear so beautifully yellow,
since the day I first saw your glow.

these metal chains around my wrists
must make me seem insane
the things I let go of
have blood on them and scratches engraved

but I swear I am holy.
I pray night and day.
anchors hold me when I go feral again.

They gave me these feathers
told me to write something sweet.
my words are the only source of warmth
I‘ll ever feel.

But I miss being held tightly
although I can‘t recall I ever was.
still I mourn closeness so deeply
as if it was something I lost.

they preach that it‘s time
that allegedly heals you
but it just feels pretentious,
they don’t know what I‘ve been through.

letters, poems, novels and sonnets
a million pages in cursive
a million of them haunt me

Creatively I

press five ideas between one --


cheerful, thick cover.