He tells me that my hair is pretty
He says my skin is the color of cappuccino...
With pen on hand, I wrote my heart on lines
as Nights came walking, running with my Days...
There's something between your humanity and mine
and it reappears when i feel less than i should...
All your favorite writers did it,
turned their heart into something tangible...
Thought I had healed,
thought I was...
Is it to much to ask for a question
instead of an action...
This is me!
The poem you leave...
Dusky and shadowy flowers
thrive in the twilight of shuttered lakes...
Fingertips muffle words
as partial sentences can...
The bile rises up
To the back of my dry throat...
I can't seem to understand,
the mysteries of life...
A poet with a sacred curse
Writing in pain with his veins...