I cried happy tears
As I realized
That not only
Did I long to sit in silence
And peace with all my friends,
That would be Heaven,
Would be paradise.
Now I believe
That's what it will be.

There's a wound festering,
And I'm letting it,
Because nothing feels so like flying
As falling,
Even if you're being dragged down
And there is nothing I love so much
As cold water rushing over my closed eyelids
Even if I'm plunging down and down...

So yes,
I am tormented.
But I won't ask for help.
I so detest bleeding on people.

On Darker Nights, If Man be Ink

On darker nights,
When the wind howls
And sorrows stick to the skin,
I remember how
Should I be stabbed
I would apologize for bleeding on you.

If man be ink
And he live beneath canvas
Why not finger paint?

I'm bleeding ink,
Bleeding out,
Trying to speak
When I lost my voice long ago writing.
And here you ride in,
On your ridiculous red bike
And gray sweater,
Rather than white steed and shining armor,
As if brevity
And wit,
Can turn river-runs of ink-blood to finger-paint?

Let my language be the storm to dazzle,
And I shall sing down the rain,
To wash and smear away the mess.
For brief I am,
And witness to much pain,
Like the o'erwatching clouds.

"Words, words, words,"
"I am so sick of words"
And yet they are all I have,
All that will remain
Long after the rain passes
Even if the drops that float down the air
Bring cleansing and more and more words
To scribble in the ink that I fear will run out.
'Cause in the brief time I am here,
How many times can I read Psalms 4?

Never give over.
Though Death soar about
And life isn't easy,
Live with sweat.
For when you've bled yourself speechless,
Language will swell
Like lake spray at full boil
As my speech fills your cup anew
To spill over the pages that the world is to you.

Exchanging one language for another,
Borrowing life from another,
Tis as easy as flying
And difficult like breathing,
For I'm already speechless,
Haven't you been listening?
How am I to unblot the page
And un-stopper a choked voice?
I know the answer;
You don't have to say it.

Say,
Why are we soft like lather?

To clean others?

Taste life,
'Tis bitter as blood.
And stains a person just as well.
Put another in the wash machine
And you just make black as bold as sordid.
Why are we soft?

I bruise in the washing machine,
I know,
I've tried to fit before.
Are we not soft,
So that all the falls and rolls
When dodging from the punches
Hurt less than the blows that land?

So that's why my pillow flees...
And I thought it was the stuffings of my head,
In so close companionship
With such high-grade pillow brains,
That scared it off...

How can you be so light,
Seem so light,
When Atlas puts his weight on the Earth
And his shadow itself must be lifted up?

Because giants,
Like us,
Are only ugly meat after death.
And dreams are refrigerators,
Keeping us.
Giants shall fall,
And I shall outlive our sky-bearer
To touch my stars.

Your metaphors,
Well it makes sense that they would be like you.
Is the fault,
Dear poet,
In our stars or ourselves?
What makes us master of our fate?
What makes us captain of our soul?

"What? What?"
More like Why? Why?
For the what gives the why,
So start from the result
To learn how to learn
From the what
Which the Why
Did come from

Learn to turn then.
"Turning, turning...
What's the use of tears?"
What's the use of questions?
Running around and around answers
Chasing one
Than another.
"What" and "Why" are my good friends
But that doesn't mean I know them at all.

So let me give you a not-so-secret:
For every moan,
Think more joyfully
And purple-y.
Because if you must run your words out,
Answering questions you cannot know,
Let them remind people of the beautiful things.
Like eggplants.

So weak, cowardly,
Am I, who once boasted of
Bravery in me,

The Rain Cleanses

Rain gets so many different reactions.
There are the people who just don't care.
And there go those who tend far too much
To their appearance that a little water
Is just criminal.
And there goes the kid
Who likes rain
But only when equipped with umbrella.

But then there are those
Who love the rain
And don't care about getting a little damp.

Because some of them realize
That rain cleanses.
With enough,
It sweeps leaves and dirt
From the sidewalks into the sewers
And adds a dash of freshness
To the ponds and streams.

It cleanses us, too,
If we let it.
If we allow the rain to wash away what's past
Who knows where we might stand tomorrow,
Which drives the question:
Is cleansing worth it?
Is it worth
The squishing and squeaking shoes?
The drops of water running down the scalp
And next to the ankle, into the sock?
Is it worth that one lucky drop
That hits you right in the ear?

Is it worth it?

For the chance to be Gene Kelly,
Yes.
For the chance to be Lea Salonga's Eponine,
Yes.
For the chance to bloom like the last flower that once refused to grow?

Yes.

I am frustrated,
For no matter how hard I try,
Each time I go to write a poem
I am consumed with the desire
To curl up into a little ball
And cry my life away.
I've got to figure out
How to work through the pain.
But I'm pretty sure
That means facing the problem.
And how am I supposed to do that without poetry?

Sing angels of music that live in the Student Union.
Sing because I cannot.
Too much fear
In this old heart.
But you,
You make me think that one day,
I can sing.
That one day the aches will fade.
So sing angels of music.
For you touch each heart around you.