Professors, strangers, and friends
In that exact order
Told me never to start a poem with I
For reasons ranging from plain bad taste
To betraying a warped sense of self importance
So instead I start with their advice
But make no mistake this poem is very much

About me

A dreaming heart who sleeps to be
Waking in a world of my creating
Beautiful southern cities with ashes in their breeze
Where angels roost in third story windows
And the brass buttons on old bell hops
Go down the breast of their coats
Like six sunsets

Deep and depressing

It’s not easy to miss something never possessed
And this dreaming heart is not the thumping war drum
It beats only me to death
Before I go
There will be silence
Last words being for those who did not say enough

And God my heart spoke
Moved pens up and down pages
Slid cursors across screens
And whispered obvious secrets between sheets
Said I love you more than I hate you
And forgave more often than not
But the times it didn’t
I couldn’t live without