Blank

Air is air
and once it's gone
it's gone.
Oh air, how cruel!
why couldn't you be more
then air just air?

- For Val's little boy

He seemed absolutely oblivious of her, something she had hoped against hope not to notice. But she had. And then, he looked her way. Gulp!

A thought that fell into my head

Everyone depends on someone, like an independent clause depends on a dependent clause. It's an unwanted and forgotten fact. The irony in this fact is that no one knows just who that someone is until they're gone.

Le

Frenchwall, frenchwall
why do you haunt the
everywhere I go?
I thought I would paint you
and then I would lose you
to another painted beau.
Tis not so,
the clouds they show
that walls they do not cease
to be of le Français.

Walls in the Shadows

There's something very frightening about the walls.
You tell me there's nothing frightening about the walls.
But there is a frightening wall;
it's to the right
of the not fright,
on the left
of the bereft,
across
from the cross wall.
It watches the walls
as they watch the sleep fall.

JESUS!

The piano drifted to sea
just when it thought it should.

I dare you to look into his eyes,
and then I dare you to feel the same
as when you didn’t look.

(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.

Wouldn't you agree

There's something very nerve-racking about you,
I don't quite know what it is.
I don't quite know that I want to know what it is,
but I know quite well that I want to know what it is that I don't know.
And that makes everything difficult.

Wouldn't you agree, good Sir?

This brain of mine

My brain, my brain
it's quite the thing
quite the awkward, funny thing.
Some days it's fine
sometimes it's (un) define (ed)
some nights it's swimming in wine.
Like rain, like thoughts
they go away
and come again another day,
if rain, if thoughts
could only stay
and never come another day.
I try, I'll try to refrain from rambling
but just so you know
just so it's known.....ahem....errrrr.....
my brain is a constant ramble
rumble
tumble
mumble.

After all,
I have spattered ink.

So who's to say I'm not going to spatter it on you?

someday

run
run
run
run,
cus you're not catching me that easily.

The thought that pillaged my other thoughts

What if you looked into somebody's eyes (this someday could be anybody) and knew they were the right person for you? But everybody told you that they weren't, that you were wrong. What defines right in that moment? What if you could get lost and never return? Would you do it, or instead sit still wondering why you hadn't? I don't want to be the still person painted in some picture that looks like every other painted picture. And I know my heart doesn't want to be stuck in such a painting. Secretly I want to be laughed at for doing something absolutely rediculous. I want to be remembered, but not because of some great deed; I want to be remembered by something that hates to be remembered, something that people can only shake their rubbishly snobbish heads at. That is all, rock-in-ridge!

She is her

She sits
and sings
and strums.
She's lonely
she's broken
she's scared.
This is what I see
this is what I love.
I wouldn't want to see
no I wouldn't want to see
anything more beautiful.

(God gave me this for you Laur, and this is how much he loves you. You are so beautiful and passionate, and he wants every bit of your passion and adores every second of it. He's so jealous for you, and he wants, he wants you).