Overthinking leads to no thinking, 
dead thinking or mind shrinking;
Heart-sinking —

So, what's the re-thinking
I need to assimilate, relinking
my spirit, head and heart-syncing?

Poetry mixing?!
Send new neural pathway tricksing,
increasing symbiosis by osmosis,
Boom...Hope winking!

You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.

We waltz through the wreckage,
the crown and her guest.
Your hem lined with ashes,
the last of what’s left.

The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise, tomorrow
and feed him with wine.

The clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.

You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.

You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.

Priorities —
Obsessions —
Where our focus flares
So too do our fixes —
You have become 
Another line item,
Order #
Thank God that I can pivot,
And return my focus to You.
Then
The obsessions fall by the wayside
And I can re-shuffle my priorities
Back to You —

Perfect—an absurd word.

By definition: without flaw, without defect.
But tell me—
who decides what is flaw?
Who dares to declare a thing complete
in a world forever undone?

Perfect is illusion wrapped in grace,
a silk veil drawn over something still breathing.
It speaks of endings
in a life that has only ever known motion.
A silence interrupting a symphony
still reaching for its final note.

To call something perfect
is to deny it permission to change—
to praise it into stillness.
It is not reverence,
but a soft undoing:
the kind that freezes a moment
so it may never become more.

Perfection, in its most elegant deceit,
is not truth.
It is a mirror too smooth
for anything real to hold.

I feel like I have a superpower
when I descend into this empire of words
like a descent into a crypt of bones
yet it opens, like a flower, to my touch
to a world, hidden, a wonderland
of beauty, of passionate lust for
creation itself

I expect the lights to flicker
as the language tilts from my tongue
like lilting spells cast in ancient dreams
did they have power after all?
it flows over my fingertips
like honey, thick and sweet
nourishing, an ambrosia of life
and the purest of expression

vulnerability
cloaked in daggers of sharp curses
and disguised by images of broken glass
yet soft, underneath my feet, once I tread beyond the trees
I walk into the forest
and it welcomes me
it beckons me
further into the glade, I sink and
it's like slipping deeper underwater
yet I feel like I'm only breathing more air.

Ahhh!
A hoarse scream leaps from my body —
An ‘oral' stage clue;
A non-verbal prompting that my inner child is overwrought.
The endless stream of capitalist-driven sanctions
Force me into action.

Yet, I revolt --
And write
p o e t r y.