She thinks she has trouble understanding hope,
questioning even the shape of the word.

She thinks its simple form incapable of 
supporting the bulk of its meaning.

Watching her lips kiss the air in familier shapes,
producing the familier sounds, of this familier word.

You can see her tounge treat it as forgain, revolting
against its formation in her ( Read more... )

If Norman Rockwell painted a mosh pit,

oil glossed fist and mohawks would hang in galleries

in between Thanksgiving and the boy scouts.

Bad plaid pants and studded leather jackets

would sit in malt shops with cops.

Power cords would be played as symphonies.

If Norman Rockwell painted a mosh pit,

the angry girl in the back of class with chelse hair cut

( Read more... )

Night left her marks like lipstick    
that heavy red hue that stains every word with something carnal.

the shadows highlighting the natural pout of her lower lip

hiding each seductive motion of her subtle tongue.

The color pulls your eyes to those perfect lips

but it's always the tongue that holds you in rapture

Night loves to leave marks on your ( Read more... )

My mother never needed a gun.
even at 21 sitting eyes locked in clear focus

down a smooth polished barrel resting steady

in the hands of a soul 6 months out of purgatory.

Our apartment sat overlooking the cemetery and the McDonalds.

I was barely out of my first year, sleeping peaceful

dreaming dreams still unshaped by the world we live in.

The hand and ( Read more... )

I miss the smell of rum.

thick sweet spice flowing, almost burning through my nose

like the fresh salt air whipping off the coast of yet another port.

lingering odor echoing behind reflections in empty bottles

drawling forth ghost of forgotten moments, once drown away.

She wore her intention like a cheap sundress,

thin yellow cloth sunflowers, wind ( Read more... )

STOP, said Harlequin to the tick-tock man
trapped in thick glass stocks smelling clean stile,

antiseptic like hospital fruit cans.

thrown in fits from violent hands, feral

leaking sand like his thoughts flow thru the cracks

of our intentions echoing peril

spending sleepless hours counting lost facts

bound to numbers with no more relevance

then worms ( Read more... )

She grabbed every word of vented frustration,
from the air and spun them in to golden thread.
Stitched together with her pens lamentations,
as he spit bile from the wound across his head.

A wound she held closed with her mouth that only bleed
as lips pulled away spreading lacerations
that poured black poison of memories long dead.
She grabbed every word ( Read more... )

These 3 haikus were written by my 9 year old daughter as I was teaching her about poetry.

The apple is red,
Shining high up in the tree,
it is beautiful.

I love butterflys
I watch them dance on the wind
flying through the sky.

Art hangs on the wall,
like a piece of memory
in my grand moms house.

"I've just seen a face
I can't forget the time or place
that we just met, she's just the girl for me
and I want all the world to see we met"

Cause you see she's been running around my head since I saw her.
Skillfully reshaping every thought like a master,
turning a slab of Grey stone in to works of diven inspiration
until every thought holds her close to ( Read more... )

She thinks carefully about placement,

The thickness of the line denotes its permanence.

A simple flurry of passion on skin never sates her

Carving lines with the precession of a razor blade.

The thickness of the line denotes its permanence.

His motions are clean reflected in the mirror

Carving lines with the precession of a razor blade.

This kind of joy ( Read more... )