In no way do I claim to be a poet. Art was always just a way to bring my insides out, and my poems are nothing more but pieces of me. My inner artist that aches for a response asks that I share this blog with people, but my nature of a perfectionist demands that I don't. If you stumble upon this, I appreciate constructive criticism. Remember, though: perhaps you can't see beyond ruins to the building that once was, so you can comment on its architecture. Perhaps, you take a look inside. This is a communion, after all.

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Embrace.

How violently the body wants to feel
the immensity of need
How badly the heart wants to give
back all the pain it has received
How deep the lips will want to tear
and taste the intimacy of bleed
How much the mouth would want to feed
on tattered skin behind the teeth
How fast the want will turn to kill
and warmth of crawling hands beneath
will choke and pull the holding seams
How loud how many voices scream
and fear softly whispers in my ear.

It all silences when he calls to me:
"Get over here."
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