A gentle thirst sits
at the base of her lips,
lost in a criminal
tremble that threatens,
confess the interrogation of
his existence, in her reality.

Last night
I slept with laughter
in my eyes.

It rippled in the form of
tears, pooling at the edges
and dropping humanity
on my sheets -

Emotions soaked
everywhere
on the sheets
by morning.

"Line inferiority," art revealed.

That is the problem with poets. It is a fear that has been programmed into their fingertips. The fear of that one line not measuring up, making anything written before or after it, a failure.

The cure?

Lay your body on the ground poet. Murmur your confessions on the ghosts of soles that have drum passed this journey before. Plant a stream of words on the road less travelled and watch them grow into something all your own. Pick the wild ones and place them into a vase. Watch the hunger of beauty transform the tip of your pen.

Willingly undergoing
condemnation daily
to display the
absurdity of DNA.

I wait for Holy Consolation
to transform this
frequency of torment,
but am forced to
continue and relive
under this regime.

It's time for some computer generated poetry! This poem was made with the iPhone app, Spine Sonnet, a poem generator that uses the titles of art and architecture textbooks to make a sonnet. If you are an iPhone or iPad user, you can get the app here:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/spine-sonnet/id422871445?mt=8

(Sorry, the link feature isn't working on my Weebly app, it could have looked cleaner.)

For some reason, I can't get the last line in when I use the font in the second picture, no matter how many times I've resized it. Very frustrating. I had resort to changing the font after I posted on Instagram. Here is it is in plain text:

Cracked tongues
do not know
how to depart quietly.
They sputter loudly,
disjointed, cold.
The doc places bandages
on teeth to
heal the disaster
of good bye in that
brilliant plastic grin,
cheeks caved in.

There are no kings,
no signs of glory
in this acquisition of flame.

You burn me bright,
senses under siege.

You're not crowned,
but you rule over
these stressed hammer
strings that labor
over a set of lungs
in need of the memory to breathe.