What is it about sad songs
that everybody likes?

Is it the lyrics,
the tune, the beat?

Do they remind people
that they're not alone?

Do they give an
excuse to cry?

I think that the radio
is saturated with sad songs.

So many that
there's no room for the happy.

And when one happy song
breaks through,

it's like a breath of fresh air
on a crowded train.

I fight you.

I work quickly
Slowing your mind,
your limbs,
your speech.

You feel me in your veins.
The hit is wonderful.

I make you droop.
clumsy and slurring,
you stay awake,
typing, and scribbling.

Finally, finally!
You give in to my pull

And sleep.

Dear Paul,
Dearest Paul,
I'm not pretending to understand.

But I know.

You feel worse than shit.
You feel worse than anyone can possibly imagine.
You feel like no one cares.

But we do.

We all really, really care.

We care so much that people who only met you once are crying for you.
We care so much that some people are wishing they were with you, wherever you are.

We love you Paul, and we all miss you dearly.

Dear Paul, dearest Paul, Rest In Peace.

I guess you would call my style
free verse
punctuation if I feel like it
stanzas willy-nilly

I write my poetry in one sitting
just going back to check the spelling
I like my poetry
to be my first and rawest thoughts

I don't rhyme
if I can help it,
too much planning
put into that

When I feel like it
I may draw inspiration
from a favorite song
or a conversation

But most of the time
it's just something
that comes to mind
or a personal experience

This poem sucks, I know,
but when I write,
I like to chose my  topics
not some assignment

It's sunny out today,
beautiful weather,
the best we've had in months.

I could be out for a walk,
reading on a sunny boulder in the woods
or even at the beach, listening to the tides.

But here I am, sitting at my desk
writing about what I should be doing
and listening to the children play and the birds sing.

I guess it's a habit.
Not going out.
I got used to it when I had no friends to play with.

I was always inside,
reading, writing,
or attached to a screen.

Never out playing street hockey
or basketball
with the other kids.

I guess I'm used to
shopping concerts and eating
by my self.

But I still miss
those days when I had the chance
to run and jump and shout.

Now here I am,
full of self pity
for opportunities missed and friends never made.

I am being Followed
I swear

by those creatures
in the corner of your eye

I am being Followed
I know

by little monsters
and larger beasts

humanoid things
and many legged creatures

disappearing
when looked at directly

I am being stalked
of course

by my overactive imagination
and shadows

at least I hope so.

A millions signatures,
on a million photos,
all by a different stranger.

Because, who really knows the people
in the limelight?
Who really knows
what they dowith their time?

The tabloids try.
The television shows say that they do.
The websites have photos and first hand accounts.

But who really knows,the people
who autographed these photos?

The music listens to me
not the reverse

I dance to my own tune
swaying to my own beat

I am my own little drummer woman
creating a tune of my own

I sing my own harmony
weaving through others' melody

I paint my photograph
using no light or dark or color at all

I do my own thing
being me my whole time.

To lose The Game
You have to know the Rules

Even though it's simple enough.

When ever you think about The Game,
you lose

And must announce your loss.
So basically,

I just lost The Game.

angora fur
calico coat

regal and aloof

we thought you stupid
'till Xander came along

rarely jumping
never running
lazy Koko-kitty

loving
but only on the water bed
never on mine

a traditional cat
with an almost Persian face

and the most adorable mew

the mommy of the cats
but never a mother
or an aunt

adopted from the shelter
no longer feral
and healthy as a horse

running jumping
mewing occasionally

always begging for attention
always begging for a treat

a furry ball of cuteness
warm and playful
my handsome little man

my baby

sleeping on your back
snoring and twitching

my amusement
my love

fetching your favorite toy like a dog
chirping like a bird

an attention-grabbing-kitty-slut when guests arrive
an attempted escapee when then leave

poofy tail
expressive as always

I know you want me to play with you now.

Burning bridges
is a form of suicide

Well I guess I've died
a million times over

Can I rebuild those bridges?
Can I be reborn?

Which way?
This way!

That way?

Every which way!
Up ways!
Down ways!
Left ways!
And right ways!

Which way?
This way.

Live laughter life
twirling in circles

flowers and ribbons and sugar spun delights
friends
dancing singing Music.

Love

sparkles and lights and colors and good book to read
free hugs (the good kind)

love is love and love means love forever.

The drugs are quick
like slipping sand
dripping onto my eyelids.

Through my veins and to my fingers,
and into ink. Black ink
from a bloody moon
tripped up on heroin.

My mind is a wave machine,
the world the wave,
whatever I think the world moves in circles.

The music makes colors
to my twitching eyes and eager fingers.
Step here, question there, doors opening and closing.

Fuzzy mind, fuzzy slippers melded together
in insane madness of crazy.

The drugs are quick.