when I was seventeen my friend died with my poem in his wallet
and then the sun set for me and God was there
he'd painted the sky so pretty for me
and then Cat Stevens wrote me a whole album
he told me about what to do if I lose my eyes
and now I like how my basil reaches up towards me when watered
like a human when kissed for a long time
give everything away! Your whole heart!
The Rest of Us
I refuse to be intimidated by your fierce intellect I admire it sure
You always spell correctly
You can tell a good poem from a bad one
you can write your own brilliant tender
that good punctuation
that opinion on
It is not a cry for help it is a loud characteristic
It is a cry We cry!
No one wants words in the trenches
we will take them sure
but only to bring us closer to a steady heart steady breath steadfastness or just trust
we want eyes we want touch mouth to mouth
we want someone to break through our sternum with their fist and protect our heart, lungs and major blood vessels from injury with their selflessness that’s how we’ll know they’re true
we want their hand to ease it all in there somehow
Can you write about that for me but more elegantly but then can you actually be there for me when I fail?