Let them talk about us.
Let them wonder if “us” still exists.
Let their ears burn and their tongues wag.
I have no interest in opinion or interjection.
My life might be an open book,
But my heart, my hurts are mine alone.
There is no shame in admitting
That I’m willing to settle
for lukewarm feelings and tepid thoughts
Because calamity comes too easily
For a woman who is passionate,
And I fear that a single gesture from you
Can leave me undone.
I say I still love you
And you say you still love me.
But we are always lying.
Sometimes it’s me
And sometimes it’s you
But we both pretend we believe
so that we don’t hurt each other.
Someday our lies
Will catch up to us
And then who will we lie to?
You’ve changed your nose.
It looks good, I’m not gonna lie.
You wear better clothes,
You’ve found your style.
And for a while, I forget why I ever left.
But you open your mouth
And your stories are a broken record
Of mistakes you cannot move from.
And then I remember
Beneath the beauty and bluster
Is the same you.
I have this long standing belief,
In spite of all previous experiences to the contrary
That love will find me again
Except this time, it will blossom into a garden where now only lies dry soil
And it will be overflowing enough for everyone to get a share and come home with their own love to pass around.
So while I momentarily grieve each broken heart,
I remain steadfast in the hope that the next one will be that kind of love.
You’re the almost to my maybe
The missed boat to my open sea
The one risk I haven’t had the chance to take
The best decision I have yet to make.
Timing can ruin even the best songs
One misstep can lead to all sorts of wrongs
But what’s a song if it’s not sung?
And what is us if we haven’t even begun?
Your face is a poem.
With eyes that dance to a meter,
and lips that speak in rhyme.
I sometimes understand you.
But mostly, I find you open to interpretation.
That is your secret,
and I am endlessly fascinated.
I know we’re in the middle of a world’s that’s gone and flipped itself over,
and I can’t make heads or tails of things beyond me.
So I’m sticking to this simple dream–
I just want someone to kiss hello,
and to blow kisses goodbye.
Make Room for Poetry 
On Guns and Hearts
On Owning a gun and giving one’s heart:
It should only be given to a person who can responsibly care for it.
It should only be possessed by a person of sound mind.
It should only be accepted by one who knows he consequences of misuse.
*Somebody reminded my yesterday that poetry can be used to make a stand and my stand is responsible gun ownership.
I think one important key to determining responsibility is complying with a strict protocol on dispensing gun licenses. You wouldn’t give a license to a person not fit to drive, and so should it be for a person not fit to own a weapon.