Naked Poetry

Because at the end of the day, I would rather be a run-on sentence than some sort of simplistically sound fragment.

And I’d have you center stage—proving nature isn’t pain. Meanwhile, I’m on the ground with letter blocks building a tower that says, “I love you.” That’s the soul-mate in me. You’re the soul-mate in me. You’re the soul I am longing for when I yell, “Where is she, where is she!?” I have already written a letter to Stan. Told him that I didn’t need another plan. That I have shopping bags full of the scenes you bring into me. Out of me. My forever muse. Even your heartbeat is art. I’m going to record it someday and use it as my metronome whenever I’m feeling lonesome, or when I am missing you. I Swear. I can’t call it a library if you’re not in it. I think the flowers must have been dreaming when they made you.

I gave you eight matches...

Most days I feel like I am nothing but memorized screams held within the pages of a dusty red book sitting lonely on top of love’s bookshelf waiting for you to Read Me

Latest episode of Naked Poetry

Latest episode of Naked Poetry

Too bright. Too good. I was there. I felt it. I shook hands with you out of body. Beach first. Moment divided by a second. Re-birth. Back on sand, toes to water but to tell you my truth sometimes I'm too cold. Back on land in front of your building. No, no, back on sand. Hands behind my mind. Your head, my heart. I said something and I hope you heard it. Because when the moon arrives I'll have to go. I have to go.