(2014)
I don’t remember any anesthesia after talking with you but I woke up stitched back
The pen must be mightier than the sword For there is nothing that will spill your guts faster than a bit of ink that says
I have whispered your name into the air so many times it has become the breeze that blows
I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can
I grew up in a house built in 1937 long before codes and regulations and sometimes
Forever seems like so long until I think of all the times spent waiting
The hands of this watch haven’t moved since the last time you did and I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear the ticking
I wrote this while thinking of you so I guess you could say this poem is eight years in the making
I get my silence in five minute doses before the plane overhead brings me back to earth
Everyday I lived out a song written just for you But you could
Everyday I visit the only writers block I know to hone my words and wit and help them cut deeper into the skin
I see no joyous rebirth in spring for autumn will bring another death I see no joyous rebirth
You asked what I knew about you and I thought up a list of twenty things
All that I know how to do is write about death without dying and write about life
I see poems that need to be written scrawled in the shape of your smile and the lines of your face
