I Never Finish Writing

I type to write to finish,

Fumble-fingers flashing furiously.

I never finish writing.

I like to count up the words and the lines,

Write another one from the other side

To point out my poet's little lies,

Or just look at the stanzas from far away,

Tracing their shapes.

They're like children, really.

They grow in ways that I don't notice 'til later.

Appeals to Some Sort

Our metaphors are all appeals

To some sort of softer daredevil,

All this fire and burning,

All the falls, the diving in,

The little deaths and the drowning in your depths.

We are skydivers all,

In love with the fall,

But impatient with those who talk about the landing.

Years of Descriptions

Your hair is the gold of sun-soaked straw,

and also seems as thick and straight.

Strange, that it would stay in place, to frame your face.

Your eyes are so watery blue I fear that they will run,

Perhaps come at me in waves.

You have the skin of an apple, colored by months of sun,

and industriously smoothed, waxed, en masse.

Your lips, too, are appleish, especially in their redness,

and also their heart shape, set off from your face

With what looks like a drawn line, remarkably defined.

You are years of descriptions of beauty, enlightened,

and you are frightening.

Write Brained

I am my highest points,

The dedication to pick up the pen

Fifteen hundred times.

I am my rockless bottoms,

The friends I should have stood by,

The things I should have done.

I am the thankful condensation

In the handfuls of cold air I breathe

and I am the visceral joy that wells up

In my darkest fantasies.

I am the facts I remember

Off the top of my head.

I am the scent that seeps

Out of my shoes.

I am write brained,

The poet to be named later.

Safety Network

Alone, you might pull me someplace lively.

A pair of you might intertwine delightfully,

Or go to different lengths to disagree,

But all of you together cross and follow

and meet at a thousand snowflake corners.

You are my safety network.

I can't imagine life without you.

Professional Ethics

The poet's professional ethics

Are surprisingly easy to read:

I will only write what I believe

Unless something amuses me,

But if I'm true to them today,

I fear they'll take my pen away,

Telling the world it's to keep me safe–

They thought I would cut myself with it.

Price/Sacrifice

Everything we make has a price,

Every moment's decision a sacrifice.

A poet is never a suitable friend.

The writing brings star-eyed beginnings dark ends.

Muses do not like it when you make your business public.

They can read and they can think, and maybe not what you think of it.

I have elevated my discourse.

I have risen through the ranks,

But who have I stepped over?

How did I really get here?