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I want to heal, for myself
And for you
Something keeps telling me
I'll still be the fool
You had enough of my unhealed ways,
You'll never trust in my post clarity days
And healing will feel good,
whether I get you back or not
But you lit this candle and
you're what I want
Candles burn out and
flames aren't forever
I should have proven then that
I could get better
Now I'm just a wick,
stuck burnt in dried wax,
ever talking about your scent
even though no one asked
For a moment my house was tranquil
I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.
If I weather your storms, could you handle mine?
Storm chasers have never been easy to find.
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...

<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?

the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?

instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from

morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies

words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia

means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed

and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the

first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just

yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
*descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past
^
3:07pm
a bright sun grilled day, in a cold June
Juneteenth 3025

on the Isle of, in the piet's nook
 Jun 20 Rob Rutledge
Robii
“I have tasted food of different spices
Delicacies and haute cuisine with exceptional aroma

So have I experienced the taste of soft lips and clean saliva
I have loved with my whole heart, soul and body”

Chuckles

There’s one thing you haven’t tasted
The pain that comes with a broken heart, lost love or maybe one sided affection
The taste of endless tears....
A broken heart is not the end of life
A broken heart is needed....,
when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,

when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...
Soft, milky white, creamy,
Rippling with the tides’ collision,
A heat envelops me,
Dripping with sweetness,
I’m parched, yearning for sustenance,
Sustained rhythms, syncopated patterns,
Ripping through the night sky,
Carried out in falsetto, sung praises,
Affirming every sequence,
Clenching with squelched wrenching,
With felt panting of lost breaths,
I stand upon the precipice,
In parallel with this blissful moment.

May we expire this little death,
Together as we sink to catch our breaths,
Enshrined in silk and Egyptian cotton,
Entwined like ivy vines,
I’ll be yours if you say you’re mine,
We can tangle endlessly,
Lovers at midnight,
Sweet like caramel,
Stuck to each other through thick and thin.
I had a good dream and wanted to capsulate it in poetic device.
 Jun 18 Rob Rutledge
1DNA
Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.
My life slogan
You need not hide
behind your poetry
You need not resist
what you believe
Your words are there upon the page
The naïve are deceived
Your greatest fears define you,
your closed mind is never free..
Loop us through your poetic spells..
Infect us with your bigotry…
Traveler Tim

I’m called the traveler because I have been all over this world and back. People are good people every everywhere you go..
 Jun 18 Rob Rutledge
Nylee
What if I lose what I hold close to my heart?
It makes the loss a deeper, tearing start.
This I possess, a sincere claim I make,
But what if fate should rudely undertake
To capture all I deem beneath my sway?
This life I trace, a breath that slips away.


All things material, or hues that shift and sweep,
A mental chameleon, a waking sleep,
Be they abstract or real, in moments caught,
A temporary hold, so dearly bought.
The grasping ego, devoid of lasting peace,
Finds fleeting comfort in a brief release,
These fragile trinkets we so fiercely crave,
Ignoring lessons that the ages gave.


Possessiveness, a shadow we uncover slow,
Steals the true richness that begins to flow.
And humbling it is, the destined fall,
When what ascends must yield its all.


Yesterday, whose hand did gently bind?
Today, I hold, tomorrow, gone with the wind.
We know the cycle, yet we cannot free
Ourselves from sorrow's clinging decree.
Perhaps the path where attachments cease to grind,
Unveils a deeper peace for the heart and the mind.
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