How Am I To Write Of Things So Beautiful By Themselves

how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves

there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights

there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict

he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for

"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"

there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches

there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop

and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week

the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship

"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)

"til death do us part"

the statement upsets me dearly

for it assumes there is no love after death

why would I stop loving you so early

my feelings won't stop right with my breath

so if there is anything after this form, not long enough nearly

my sweet oblivion, let me take you to the altar

first time possibly, hopefully the second time

and I will promise you to hold your hand and never falter

for loving you only on this earth would be a crime

- zero (me)

what is a poet if not writing

what if not dead then

my hands ache when I grip a pen

but I refuse to let go

if there is pain there's something to cling to

then there is something to write about

if my hands break from the strain so be it

I will use them until I can't use them further

so may the ache never stop

so may the poets never die

so may the fire burn

so may I still try

• old bandages - zero (me)

there aren't any words in which I could put the purest act of your love that is sitting with me at night and listening to me complain about writing poems and songs

I hope you realise all the love in them is for you

everything is changing and it feels like spring came too quickly

it's sunny and bright outside this weird February

and everything seems to be changing so rapidly

and I've come to realise everything is dependant on a perspective

when I saw an angel from a weird angle

the bright sun making it's features distorted

and lately I've been cold in more ways than just one

and today I felt like crying about everything

and I did when you held me at a bus stop and told me you're grateful to have me

and we talked about the future

or the lack of it

in the time we had until your ride home came

both decided on a silent life and nice cafes

I need you to know you're a good kid

and I know you're going places

• places better than this one - zero (me)

(on friends who hold your head like they're afraid of hurting you in any way. on having no future but still hoping for at least another summer. I came back home with cold finger tips and this poem scribbled on my hands. I told you about my ideas for my poetry but now you're in one.)

around the dinner table

comes a story not so old

that they think does not

resonate anymore

about crooked floorboards

and cold water for months

and saving all your money

in order to save yourself

and when it ends they

hand you some cash since

these times are past us

but you know you're wise

and so put money in a jar

hidden from everyone

you have to save up

in order to save yourself

the times have never and

will never change

• savings jar - zero (me)