Sew my lips shut
To keep in all the sensations I exhale

Every aching sip of sadness

OR* tangy bout of rage

They are my art
            And without them, I am nothing

I am fading again
Back into grey
Into the background
Peripheral vision
        Movie extra blur
I'm hidden
               So well I can't even see me
Camouflaged
     By all the carnage
                       who's to say
              *how long I'll be gone
       or what will remain when I
                       crawl back  into  *focus

It's the season of aching
For something that I can never quite find a name for
The hint of warmth in midst the frozen air
God,
I still can't find it

*And that's why my heart hibernates
through the winter

It still hurts
Missing you
Even though I can have you
At a moments notice
Fingertips on cool glass
You'd be happy to hear from me
This time of year
When we were together most
You were on break
I was inside
But it isn't the same
It just isn't
And I can't surpass the differences in between

I Will Apologize
             Everday
      For the rest of This Life
         That I could not paste together
Your broken pieces
       or
        Brighten the darkness
              That haunts the spaces behind
Your eyes*
                      That's all I ever *Meant to Do

As I fall asleep
Thinking about you
Thinking what we could be
Things we used to do
Those late night conversations
5 am our bedtime
Baby you’re my salvation
Now there is no next time
There’s no more saving me
Cause I am ruined without you
I am a chaotic mess
My mind’s a ****** zoo
Caged thoughts
My heart’s numb
Feelings are mew
Liquor running in my veins
Those pills gonna get me through
Mama tells me every night
I believe her, I really do
But what about this crazy heart
Keeps asking for a doze of you*

S.L.

there's a lot to the body of a poem,
i don't know.
sometimes i think a whole book of short sentences and 'enter,'
a whole book that reminds me of my early high school stream-of-thought poems,
shouldn't be acclaimed as great poetry on a shelf in barnes and noble.
but at the same time, I think you could leave a pile of feces to bake in the sun on the sidewalk,
3 people step in it by accident in a day,
and that is still life's finest example of poetry.
I've never really claimed to write poetry
but
there's a lot to the body of a poem,
each curve, each cellulite clump,
each real and exposed part of a poem
close up in a mirror type of exposed,
naked in front of your love for the first time type of exposed,
those are deserving...
but so are life's poems,
which is a lot like **** on the sidewalk.

I think I write both, and I suppose I like both and I know I am both.