"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."

Normal is you.
Normal is me.
Normal is everybody.
Normal
spreads
over
the
entire
planet.
Normal is everything.

Let me caress your every sinew
I do not care if you've been used
for many men know the temple of God
but few on holy ground have trod
her birthplace that is creation
yet they treat you with predation
a child that sleeps within your womb
soon your bed will be their tomb
the years of men will surely pass
upon your head I count the grass
they outnumber thee ten fold to one
and yet their bud is still but young
our age is like a moth at night
that travels towards the sacred light
and is extinguished by the flame
Will you remember my name?
your favoured son
Will you forgive the things I've done?
or another knot in the tree become

She
        Shouldn’t

Be

           Mine

But

        I’m

Glad

              She

Chose

              Me

I smell like-
Cigarettes:
Menthols, I bummed;
But you hold me anyways.
I taste like-
Liquor:
***** and ***;
You kiss me anyways.
I'm not-
Perfect:
Angry and flawed;
But you want me anyways.
My eyes are-
Green;
But they shine like gold,
When I see-
You.
I (don't) know-
Why
(But) I love to
Be (me) with You

tears run hotter than blood

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.