mental plaque

infundibular. - J.W. Bouwman

i’ve not the words left in me
to plait into anything
more (or less) tangible -
when heaviest night
draws mists over my thoughts
and the morning
seems every bit as far
as the new england coast
that birthed me
and all is dark
and all is not still
inside my mind,
where my pillow is the only place
i can whisper
that no,
i’m really not alright
after all

natural. - J.W. Bouwman

i reside in the quiet places
which roar in perpetual stillness
within the chaos of my mind

painter.

the gloaming swathes me
in a deepening twilight
filled with shades of you

- J.W. Bouwman

uncertainties. - J.W. Bouwman

attraction
(as it turns out)
is a fickle beast,
balancing upon a tiny fulcrum
of mystery and not having,
blended with the phantoms
of women i could never be,
ideals i have never really been,
and tinged from the smoke
of disappointment’s banked coals
hidden deep within
your every glance

so swings the compass needle. - J.W. Bouwman

sometimes the aching surges
when the moon hangs low,
and full
- tidal pull, ancient as time,
grasping at my inner oceans -
a constant undertow of wanting
coursing invariably
towards you

start the day again. - J.W. Bouwman

i’m so tired
of the light
that limns
my closed eyelids
with a warmth of touch
that only makes me
ache the more
for all the morning kisses
i’ve yet to receive

trying to hear the silence through the cacophony.

nighttime breathes
and i can only listen

- J.W. Bouwman

precipice. -J.W. Bouwman

the lifetime of seconds
just before the touch
hold power,
the potential of the kiss-to-be
pulling ancestral emotions
from the base of our spines
(where all the truth lives, after all)
with a knife edge shiver
of a promise