Your Song

I want to lay next to your song

And drift away in your tune

If I were to wake in your arms

It would still be too soon


Because now is all we have

There is no was or will be

Songs can only last minutes

But that is enough for me



I wrote this poem for a partner of mine years ago. He was an amazing musician, and we had a blazingly hot, if a bit short, summer romance when I was 19.


As you can imagine this year has gotten a bit insane.  Between the new quarter starting and the TRB explosion, I have been a bit swamped.

I have missed writing dearly! I do hope to get back to it soon.  I am hoping this poem will tie us both over until then.




Your Art

I want to know you, your paint strokes and stained glass. I want to see the clay that formed you, the songbird that kissed its voice into your lips.

I want to know you through the only medium you ever truly speak. Let me know your art.

Not just your best, your perfection. Show me you, laid bare on the canvas.

I don’t want to know your work carved into the steps of a palace. I do not want to see it on stage, hung on walls, or bound in leather.

For none of that is your art; it is your attempt at perfection. Do not show me what you think is best. That may be art, but it is not you.

Paint me the colors of your soul on the days you can’t get out of bed. When your hands are shaking too much to hold the brush. Dance for me as your limbs tremble too violently to stand. Write when your vision is filled with tears and your hands are covered in blood too thick to reach the paper. I will not be satisfied until I have seen your soul scream ugly onto the porcelain canvas of your skin. Until your poetic speech has lost all hope of rhyme.

For I do not want to look at you and find perfection. I want to look at you and find art, art that sears your every emotion onto my being. Only then can I find you beautiful.

I have seen perfection, the struggle for it, the work that comes from it. That is not beautiful to me, it does not satisfy the expectations I hold of art. To achieve perfection you have to kill the part of yourself that makes you human, the part that makes you beautiful to me. Maybe in today’s world of dying masterpieces that is what you need to get by, but it is not what I wish to see.

I believe some of the greatest art has been born out of insanity, out of ugliness, out of such raw humanity you have to find it beautiful. Van Gogh did not paint that night sky because he saw perfection. He did not look up at those burning lights and aim to copy them onto a page. He painted it because his eyes were so riddled with pain, his mind so clouded by insanity, all his hands could do was paint his soul into those stars.

So paint me your insanity, your blood and your tears. I want to fall in love with your chaos and never think for a single second that you are perfect.