Its not coincidence,

but harmonic unchained events

stocking tissue around a surface

rooted by subtle glow.

I love you, invisible

but appearing.

I feel you, cold

but brightening.

Its not lost if it still make sense,

showing every night

my own contour

painted white.

Your own contour is

a halo of stars.

I love you, sarcastic

but lovely.

I feel you, powerless

but inspiring.

Your own form is an embodied cell,

almost as large as existence.

But my body wont fit you,

as vague as a man,

dressed as an astronaut

waiting to die in your dust.

Just a ruse

To peruse

And choose

Who's

My Muse.

I am.

Air electrifies,

When I see your eyes.

Dream, when I said that I,

Loved you more through time.

Fate still sleeps.

But then I finally see,

The never-ending depths, 

In your blackened wreaths.

Your face, I cannot touch.

A flawless grace, a drug too much.

You hide in your smile like a klutz,

But I'll be here, you'll be here, unstopped.

I see your tears, your fears, your demons.

I see the nightmares, the dreams, you moron.

Stop hiding behind that fabricated, annoying laugh,

You and I, we're one in a half.

My sleeping twin.

I write about my life 

my pain and struggles 

I have been through so much 

I have so many feelings and secrets 

I keep inside my head 

I let them loose 

in the words of my poems 

All of my poems are really 

they are part of my past 

they are part of my present 

they tell my story 

the story I have a hard time 

speaking about

even in therapy 

were I should share everything 

But it it so much easier  

speaking in the written word 

posting it on here 

lets people read it 

people can know how I feel 

I can't show the people I know 

strangers will read 

but not try to help me 

not try to fix me 

or cheer me up 

like my friends would 

like my family 

I can feel heard 

without feeling judged 

strangers may judge me 

but what does it matter 

I don't know them 

that inspires me 

I can speak my mind 

I can tell my story 

I can feel heard 

that is my muse 

As I surive through this world I meet people

Who should never have existed

Beyond a paper prison

Those too beatiful for the harshness of man

The violence of reality

Whose voice and character inspire me

To write them where they should be

In a world made of imagination

One that caters to them

That makes them the center of the world

Where they should be

I write them to live the lives that they should have

Because only people in books

Are perfect

And yet

Everyday I see perfection 

In your smile

And your laugh

And your sneer

And your anger

These things need be put where they belong

In a world where 

That perfection

Isn't overlooked

Faint whispering breeze

upon your morning shadow

whispers your mystery.

I scrape up your roots

and follow your flashes.

Words sleep fitfully

in my mind until you,

my enchanting muse,

wrap me in your

inspirational blanket,

intoxicating me

with ethereal visions

and swirling auras.

Underneath my skin,

I feel nothing

until you throw me

a lifeline to entice me

to the light brushing

under my door,

awakening senses

arousing decadent flesh

teaching me to scribble

raw words,

venturing to vistas

with no horizons.

Teaching me to tiptoe

in the light of the moon

and shoot my soul

with laser beams

of creative energy.

Vibrations in veiled heart

levitate as I hold

my cup for you to fill.

I quiver when you move

into my writings

to reside with me -

clone of my soul,

inspiration of tides.

“You are my Muse, my inspiration!... You are the reason I wake up in the morning and do not sleep at night… When I think of you words just flow in an endless stream; I try to put together on paper the images in my head, albeit in a constricted form. Sometimes I think I will do your bidding, if only you would spare me!”

“Wow, what do you mostly write?”

“Wills”

To Death

Eternally Yours,

The mountaintops are bare of mists

The sun burns away the mesa walls

She comes down, dropping blossoms in

Her wake, palo verde and saguaro flowers

The desert sings of her, my muse

My muse, she sings of the desert

And in the rests between, she turns to me

My match, my spark among the dunes

And lights in me a fire to last through

The black nights where stars scream

Paeans to gods nameless and profane

There are no lovers in the hazy darkness

That have not, in anguish, loved her

There are no poets alone in the scrubland

Cotton hair

of wispy white

floats around her azure eyes.

Her fertile skin

of brown, green, and tan

is covered, 

and exposed, 

by a dazzling dress of magnificent blue.

An obsidian crown

embedded with thousands of diamonds

lies upon her head.

She is a nurturer of the sick,

supplying everything her children need.

She is a tyrant

with an anger stronger than the gods'.

She is an inventor,

creating beyond imagination.

She is a demon.

She is an angel.

She is a god.

She is the most beautiful,

inspiring,

intimidating thing to exist.