(2014)
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’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can
I wrote this while thinking of you so I guess you could say this poem is eight years in the making
I have whispered your name into the air so many times it has become the breeze that blows
The road is long and winding like nothing you can imagine Too many off ramps to count but too few in hindsight
Everyone sees god in a different light but I was born without eyes
I wish you had told me that on the good days kissing you would make me think that I knew what happiness was and on the bad days
I spend my nights wishing on every star in the sky that you are alive and well
All that I know how to do is write about death without dying and write about life
If I was once the tallest mountain your love was the wind that eroded me to nothing
There seems to be a drought in my… but who knows if it is the cause or the result of the war raging within me
My heart was paper now folded six times over to make it harder to tear I only hope that
There is poetry in nature better left to be spoken wordlessly by the breeze
I see poems that need to be written scrawled in the shape of your smile and the lines of your face
Everyday brings a new death in three words give or take Some days I drown
