I know my poetry is in shambles-
it is enchanted with...

You say you like the way a risk
can tickle the spine...

Should one worry
if her dream...

The Pine trees keep surprising me,
with the way every limb reaches for the stars...

I find your tongue appealing-
the way it settles...

It's 9:57, morning tide-
melancholy mocks me...

There is this thump in my chest
that's gentle, like the pitter patters of dusk...

Mr. McHugh use to be fun
until he saw my pink heart...

It does me no good
to muse over frown lines...

He inspires me
with a yellow bellied impression...

Hearts
are meant...

There was a man on Cops last night;
sobbing like someone had just pinched his heart...