There are days

When I dream of ways

To move beyond this monotonous haze--

To see beyond these shades of gray.

There are also days 

When I break my own rules,

Destroy the monotonous,

Double dip the chips,

And drink straight from the milk carton.

I find myself in words of mirth

waiting out the storms of life as

your lips gleam across whispers

in filtered light from sun’s radiant smile.

Unearthed in interludes of fantasy dreams,

the wildness of the dance of night

winds chains of flowers loosely

through my tangled, silken hair.

Captured in abyss of drenching rain,

I taste you and inhale your heart.

I unmask myself in golden sphere

inflating the painted blue sky,

within the woven music of my life.

I touch the shadows reawakening

the flames of embered fire,

encounter foaming whitecaps

simmering like lips on softest dawn.

I pillow my happiness in billowing love,

find myself hidden in diamond crystals

of brisk mountain breezes,

bask in eternity of unending oceans,

divine myself in abundance of color.

late upon evening,

long past fireflies’ douse of

affections’ blinking beams,

yet before last embers

breathed their final glow,

repose came hunting

no easy, peaceful prey

could satisfy reward

of labors spent; rather

anguished, determined heart

of destiny did serve

her latest aim,

who knew fitting cost of

laying soul quite bare, full

out in open view,

unadulterated,

intending only truth?

(seemingly beyond reproach)

yet at that captured glimpse,

when final dark stood tall,

no eye of conscious called

aside eternity

or hastened fateful cry

of one so needful for a way

no sound was heard beyond

a breath exhaled in sigh;

then whisper slithered back,

ashamed of bold demand;

abandoned heart lay spent…

to rest in peace

___

Before,

repose came hunting.

Her latest aims

(seemingly beyond reproach)?

Of one so needful for a way

to rest in peace.

i swear 

if i see 

the word forbidden

in one more queer poem 

im going to flip my shit

the cliche is tired

we are all tired 

of being forbidden 

in your poetry 

in poetry 

you can be anything

you can be everything

you can be free as the wind 

you can be as true as birdsong 

and you can sing 

sing your love as song and true 

as the lovebirds do

static blue

  flicker

stillness 

   is best

        bare feet

        do not

        touch 

        the floor

but gouge

  splinters 

   in suspended

time

wait 

  and measure

each breath

  caught

      on the air

 rasps 

of the already

deceased

    as your

     heart 

has long past

        fled 

an ill 

decision

come

too late

I remember your naked shoulders

Soft

And from the back

The confusion twice a day of

Sunrise or sunset

The world didn't exist

Beyond the bed

Where every word we spoke

Was absorbed

By cotton and skin

And it took a lifetime to recall a lifetime

Then we'd say it all again

Your voice was so lonely

Whispering everywhere you'd been

Your voice was so lovely

With regret of what you'd done

In my heart I knew that bed could only

Exist with dirty sheets

And clean bathtub drugs

Writers are beautiful people. We are truly wonderful. I believe that with my whole heart.

My problem, though, is that to be a writer you have to want. You have to want things so badly; things you cannot have, things you cannot see. You must want to be invincible, want to be heard, yearn constantly.

Sometimes it's hard to want. Sometimes I get tired of wanting and I want to just be. Existing isn't enough to write about. Maybe wanting is what makes us human.

I feel nothing anymore. Am I still human? Am I still a writer?