(For one of my characters in one of my stories)

winter is a drought to me
summer is snowed in,
and my heart is black so black you see
black as it can be.

The City

i'm gonna run away again,
i can feel it in my bones.
fuck this!
fuck this city!
fuck this life i've made for myself!
i'm gonna run away,
but i realize as the tears run down
down
down
that i can't anymore.

i just can't.

(i'm sorry that there's so many swears, but i had to get this out, and it needed to have the swears...this is dedicated to my friend Aaron. poetry isn't just about ryhmes and beautful flowing words for me anymore, it's about people and circumtances and weather or not i'm willing to share them. there's so many different forms of poetry, and he's helped me to see the beauty of the swearing way...haha. but seriously, sometimes things are the way they are, and you can't make them fancier. i've tried to make things fancy all my life, and by admitting this it doesn't mean i'll stop (i'm sure i'll never, ever stop) but it means i'm fine with unfancy things. i've come to love unfancy things as much i love fancy things, and fancy.......if any of this makes sense then i think i should win an award, but seeing as it doesn't, i'm fine with winning nothing, i'm fine with having this blog and being able to write. what would i do if i couldn't write......? Aaron you're awesome, and thanx for being who you are:))

mystery (mis'te re) n.

DeBussy

Orchastra
orchastra
play me a tune
the loveliest tune you have.
Play Claude DeBussy, play,
perhaps he will chase the sorrows away
or bring them gaping anew.

Fell
into
falling
today.

Fingers

Playing piano on the ceiling
washing away this aweful feeling
of never, never.
Wondering why you're not here anymore
and why the door isn't on the floor
it's on the ceiling with my piano.
This is what my fingers say:
"...poetry doesn't make sense anymore
and the door isn't on the floor
it's on the ceiling with my piano...."

It must be a hard door to get to.