More of a Poet

I think I’m more greedy

than you can imagine,

spread out and dyed,

smothered in the freshly baked pages

of imagery gone wild,

swinging out across the sand.

I want to swallow and taste

the bitter hue

of words gone sour

in the library of our thoughts composed,

boiled, shredded and baked

in the oven of our small apartment.

I’ve got the sensation

of all your angles and panes

stamped across my tongue

despite my actions of trying to

scrape myself clean of you

with a bloody knife.

I’ve got you printed deep within

the pages and painted

across my skin,

despite my horror.

I’ll never see your grimace,

your smile, your laugh

carved and curled around the words.

I’m expecting myself to write fantasy

in which you don’t exist,

the wall are white

and the sheets are clean.

You’re more of a poet than

I am though,

for I can still feel your presence

moving inside me.

The Poet's Lover

Saturday morning,
I lie alone, buried within your bed,
white sheets stained blue, black
in the fit of hallucination
bordered along the edge of your pen,
for I am forgotten,
abandoned in the frenzy of artistic rage.
I don't think I've ever heard your voice,
just the muted, suffocating rasp
of pen against paper.
I know the sounds of vowels squeaking in fear,
curving around in soft puddles
of unknown inspiration.
I know the harsh cried of consonants,
the joyful smile of alliteration,
the secret sighs of metaphors,
imbedded within your poetry,
your madness, your joy
unbridled within the glimpse
of literary violence,
the sweet sounds of sensuality on fire
as your love is melted to the page
without even a chance
to cool.

The only whispers of a conversation
I hear from you
are painted wide within the arcs
of poetry.
There are no thoughts other than
this moment of carefully
knitted words.