This heart of mine

stretches and bends

to fit any mold

It changes its

shape and color

to meet the needs of

each soul it comes across

This play-doh heart of mine

has been left out to dry

It's cracking and crumbling

Falling apart piece by piece

Unlike the brightly colored doh,

my play-doh heart can't be

softened and restored with water

It requires something stronger,

tonight I'll submerge it in

a bottle of Jameson

in hopes of restoring it,

if only for a moment

This play-doh heart of mine

stretches and bends to meet

everyone's needs but mine

Stare up at the woman

who hung the moon for you,

at the man who whittled out

stars for you to chase

into the sky. It was a game,

they said, but really

they wanted to teach you how

to swim in stardust currents,

which was your birthright,

but neither one knew

what to do with comets or

nebulae, for she was a fish

and he was the lesser dog of two.

But they did their best

and showed you all they saw,

and taught you the names

of every pinprick of light,

and sent you flying out

after those stars, laughing

full of night and the sense of right

particular to children

who know where they belong.

Go out, little diamond, little Queen,

go out! and settle

wherever in that darkling tapestry

it pleases you to shine.

Take a left at the willow tree

follow the road round four bends

keep right at every fork until

the scarecrow in the fallow field.

At this fork take your left.

Here the dirt road crosses a path,

a broad swath of white gravel stones

that should gleam by the moonlight

(if they don't, run away) – park.

Get out. Walk the moonstones

as long as it takes

to recite any poem by Keats, and stop 

upon the final word.

Wait there in the dappled clearing

in the copse of corpselike birch

and cursed yew and witch-elm.

Wait there while the wind whispers

To the underbrush and murk, a council

of night assembled to try you.

There await their somber verdict.

There await their strictest sentence.

Move not a muscle, nor utter a noise.

I'll meet you at half past.

Why can't I stop

Diving deeper into my own 

Thoughts 

I tear myself down

Piece by piece until I'm 

Confetti

You say one word

And I'm spinning it so its

Vicious

My own worst enemy

Twisting your words into

Daggers

Woe is me 

And the hell I bring upon

Myself 

i seek refuge from my thoughts,

my doubts,

my insecurities. 

there's something about, 

soap and suds,

with a wet sponge. 

the clattering of glass, 

against metal pots and pans. 

there's something about hot water, 

wearing gloves because if i don't,

my skin will crack,

and that makes me,

well,

not think. 

my mind does not wander,

nor does it contemplate, 

all i focus on is the task at hand. 

or in my hands for that matter. 

it numbs me to an extent. 

i don't enjoy chores. 

and most of the time i loath it. 

but for some reason,

when i don't want to feel,

or don't want to question,

i head into the kitchen,

blast the radio on,

and wash the dishes. 

Her face is a poem,

stops men in their tracks.

But her piece of art,

is defined by its cracks.

She worries and races,

throughout her whole day.

No one stops to think,

about the price she must pay.

While others want from her,

to her family she gives.

Her freedom must die,

so their hope may yet live.

Then one day she meets him,

recognizes his power.

He begs for her trust,

and bears Bleeding Heart flowers.

Her eyes tell him the story,

of the way she must go.

He respects her decision,

about their love yet to grow.

Her heart is a puzzle,

and by her mind it's driven,

It can never be taken,

it can only be given.

You're not just a

lost and empty soul

longing to feel something

You're a beautiful and gentle soul

with a bleeding heart

You and I are a different breed

You stay awake to avoid the nightmares

I close my eyes to escape the nightmare

We hide acoustics in our closets

instead of skeletons

I know that when I let these

tears of highly flammable liquid fall,

You'll use a match as a pen

to write me words sweeter than honey

and reignite the dying embers

You're a true wordsmith

who bleeds words

You think in poetry

And know the difference

between sympathy and empathy

We survived the war

All that's left to do

is rebuild the town

that was once painted black,

and find that happy place

we writers dream about

With each other's help

we'll get there one day

And know that in me,

you'll always have a friend

“You have an obsession for women’s long hair,” the psychiatrist rephrased his patient’s words. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. There are a lot worse things in life!”

“Well, sometimes I sit in the mall for hours just gazing at girls with beautiful glossy hair. My fascination is beginning to take over my life,” confessed the young man slouched down in his chair.

“I can either medicate you or we can try counseling sessions,” the doctor said in a bored tone. But why is it bothering you so much?”

Putting his head in his hands, the man sobbed, “I have no more space in my bedroom for the swatches of hair hanging from my ceiling and my basement is beginning to smell of rotten flesh. How can I continue in my passion if there is no more room?”