Naked Poetry

And it’s important. How you hold me.

Syntax me silly, bomber boy. Beauty boy. Laugh me listless til I mourn. Burn my after beam so backwards.

Maybe I'm Finally Home

The Constant

It was on the mezzanine Where we saw day tame the night The stage held our eyes in separate hands clocked together methodical in nature Oxymoron we Lust Our smiles Stitched into microfilm Speaking of the light and how it loved us.

You once said to me, “it’s your soul that’s beautiful” Well, what if I told you that I haven’t been able to lose a beauty contest since I met you. That I have to make space now for impact. Because everyone wants to know my secret. My love. My aura. To join my flame. To claim my smile because now it’s worth its weight in Time. The priciest factor. The most pressing factor. Unabashedly precise. So forgive me. If I do not ask you how we could be better off because I’ve never heard of anyone who was “better off”. Without their “one” without their matching puzzle piece, without their sky, without peak without middle C, A or B. Without their Me.

All writers are ghosts. When we dream it is not accident. Everything in us is waiting.

2. Dear somebody, which is stronger, great hate or great love? Are they not the same? I will come back to these questions but I have a powerful feeling inside me -feels like whatever has been trapped inside my heart has its perfect hands pressed flat against my walls, pushing my ceilings into cathedrals. It is a good thing I taught myself long ago that mistakes can be, in the final stage, bring with them beauty. This is why for every mistake I stain a glass.

Forgive Me

Your Eyes Are Full of Kerosene