My Heart’s An Open Book

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Every day…I write you a love letter.
No pen, no paper, just what’s inside my heart.
I know they never reach you.
But, right now I’m OK with that.
Because, no matter how many words I’ve written, or how many more I’ll write.
My heart will never close what was, what is…what will forever be,

the best chapters of my life.

Dream A Little Dream Of You

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tell me how I can make a dream come true
like the one I had last night of you
and then there was the night before
and…well, so many many more

it’s the one where you said hello
and the tears suddenly began to flow
we rushed into an embrace and held each other tight
all I wanted to do was hold on with all my might

I tried to stay for as long as one dream could remain
in a place void of the hurt, the loss, the pain
oh please tell me how I can make that dream come true
when I dream a little dream of you

Plagiarized Love

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my love for you is like a book with stolen pages
beautiful words erased
deleted lines…replaced
everything’s torn from the very bind
words rewritten that were never mine
an unknown author with a tale of a broken heart
spends his lonely days with nowhere to start
his pen runs dry
there’s nothing more to capture
in this tragic love story without its final chapter

Bum Stories

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a weathered man greets me on a corner
his face, aged ten times and his smile barely cracks
but I know it’s there as his eyes always confirm
for a million moments in passing
he shares with me his story
I read every line trenched in his scaling cheek
and coarse wore out locks
paint for me a daily tragedy
and all I do is keep walking

What’s Staring Back?

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It’s black inside the ocean
especially in the shadows where sharks pretend to sleep
my eyes barely banish their stares
until what lurks finally confronts me
but…
why have they not teethed
on this body that drifts alone
lifeless and willing
could they sense poisoned blood
from just a taste
am I worse


French Island

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surrounded in the francais
schoolboys like I, chase through stone corridors in jest
pass tank topped bread makers and
rum runners filling dark sacks
who was I to speak to the going-ons of this foreign land
take me instead to the countryside
in an hour less a half
share with me tales
let me sip wine
and pretend that I am a man