'Twas but three years ago
I set my pen to sea, a vessel born
a fragile craft of ink and fervent flame
with compass cast in yearning, not in security

The waves lapped soft with secrets,
a few saddening,
fewer sweet.

Each line cast: a current pulling at my feet
no charts existed
no charts exist
for waters this deep nor wide
where poets dream,
struggle,
fight,
cry,
accept

and ancient myths
shared from one to the next
reside

The sky, a parchment vast with thousands of drifting stars
drew constellations shaped like hopeful scars

i
you
we,
search for love – the poet’s atlantis
a realm where whispered truths and passions flow


clouds
like veils
concealed what lay ahead
storms were born from longing
words went unsaid
crucial words
I chased reflections that danced on the waves
illusions
forged in the poet’s unforgiving mind

the siren’s song – a melody of doubt –
called me close
not once, but repeatedly
–
somewhere
I know
Janus smiles
–
called me close then took away my sound
took away my hearing, and my voice.
and what was it that was so alluring?
the shimmer? the glint? the gleam?
or just the ghost of a forgotten dream?

Ink dripped like rain upon my weathered scroll,
a log of my journeys,
a testament to my voyages,
each line, each stanza, each poem,
an ebb of the sea carrying me ever further on my path

There, at the ocean’s floor
lost in fragments,
scattered arrays —
a compass
broken,
fractured remnants

one night
tides of silence
waves of wait
the poet’s curse
the lover’s fate

until

a flash, a beacon–
love’s distant flame–
guided through tempest,
called my name.

–
still it glows
a lighthouse, for all ships
that pass
–

not all who wonder
sink or drown
not all condemned to be a poet,
a lover,
a feeler,
are left to fall
fall
fall
ever lower into the depths of the cold
dark
deep
waters.


Beneath the veil of night,
a whisper grew
a secret kept
only silence knew.
the heart, a vessel sailing starry seas
found shore where love’s soft voice
dissolved unease

no longer lost amid the waves and foam,
the poet’s quest
had brought him safely home
adorning not treasure, nor gold, nor gems
but a reason to put down the pen
a reason to discern
the clouds from the storm


I stepped onto sands
warm beneath my feet
where time and tides and two hearts
met

a poet’s journey
ended

for now, when he
causes the ink and parchment to embrace
once more
it is not for the same cause as once was
–
to express his discomfort,
drifting about on the waters:
his only support;
a 4 legged stool,
built solely to hold his skeleton-
but never built to bear the rest
–
but rather to express
the dilation of his pupils
as dawn approaches, and the
the morning spills like
honeyed gold;
a whispered warmth the
night can’t hold.



the ink now flows from calmer, steadier hands
the poet, now having resigned himself
to the discomfort of the ocean
finally lands.

–
She is my peace
her arms my warmth
her smile my joy
her love, my home.
--

Something about how the white lightning illuminating the room  
left me with perfect snapshots of you
or
Something about how your laugh rolled through my head
louder than thunder.
write Something
everyone says,
"write Something"
but all i can think of is the way you called my name.
so i’ll write something about how
i am more pressed petals than full bloom,
something about how miles away feels closer than a breath down my neck,
something about never wanting to hold a hand again.
(but i am not, and it is not, and i do.)

this is the best i can do.

we run through life's tunnel--
terrified,
walls covered in mirrors,
our reflections always on display
for the passersby.

a straight path,
reminding us of our imperfect
reflections,
until we reach the end--
glass hitting us right in the face.

that's all we see at the end--
ourselves,
and all the people we wished we could be,
replacing our reflection.

in reflections, what we see
is never what we want to be.

The obsession was endless
tears undeserving, a hated addiction.
"let me breathe,
or I might just die"
scrawled on the bathroom wall.

Oh! How excited I'd be,
to meet the ground, six feet underneath.
Unafraid of missing the northern lights,
exhausted with these caustic words
flying like bullets out of my own mind.

Gossipy little words throughout my ears-
spreading heinous lies about my character
but he scrawled threats I know I might take seriously.

Scars lined up like cheerleaders upon a gymnasium floor.
Death shoves to take his spot at the top of the bleachers,
looming over those laughing scars.

An announcement is made;
Bookworms writhe at the thought of a human's words going to waste,
Stoners rush out of the way,
Jocks make haste to find what to say
Death just laughs
while, other kids pray.