Such a simple thorn,
Suffocating my nose and,
Clogging up my brain.

Is it the words that flow and rhyme
And dance in rhythm, keeping time?

Or is it a line
That breaks when it wants to,
Not when it’s told;
A thought
Spilling without apology?

Or 5-7-5
Secrets whispered by the wind
Words, though few, sing true?

Perhaps it is found behind coughed petals,
Fourteen lines aligning to pave a stage
Where lovers for love charge into battle
And hearts are found pierced or tangled in rage

Or ten words, though short, a poem for the world

Or the sun spilling gold across the sky
Painting clouds as the sea drowns its light.

To me, poetry is emotion;
Memory,
Ink spilled where the heart leaked
And it is not meant for everyone

I feel the world at
   times conspires to make true my
basic discontent.

Waiting for the one,
Single perfect moment when I,
Finally, feel free.

When I breathe and it,
Feels like I am alive and,
Everything is fine.

When that moment comes,
Appreciation will spread,
Smiling happily.

lost — yet again — like
the only thing I succeed
in is in failing

Morning light subdued
Lingers past the wake of day
Apple blossom time

I feel like nothing
Physically, I'm living
But I'm not alive

you wear my shirt from
the night before like it's your
turn to fill my space

to savor and taste
where there was only hunger
just the night before