short poems about life and love

she asked about loneliness and what it was all supposed to mean as if somehow this singular truth of our existence held...

the weight of my world hung in the balance as her hands shuffled fate along with the deck. cards spilled out across...

there’s no way to know for certain what he saw from his open window one solitary night when he felt moved enough...

“the word is not the thing” he said once again and of course i had to agree (at least intellectually) but what...

he talked about the ultimate color to thread thru his window on a world and maybe you remember the jester who once...

“you’re not too special” she said and to my young mind it must have been true as she stood sternly in blue...

there are words we hurl against the fabric of coal- black night, words that scaffold our crumbling sensibilities and designed to force...

you don’t have to pull as these words bleed out and spill on the page to soak them in meanings i can’t...