I am writing nothing.
Contentment soothes my soul but
stops my hand on the page.
Memories of you make me smile
And the strong emotions of
Yesterday are forgotten
As you and I together
Ease three months of torture
At your hand.
My mind is young
but I have scars still, from
Both them and you.
After fighting through mud and swamp
To reach where I am now
I have come out clean.
The dirt and muck must have
Gone somewhere.
We can't find them
And are okay with pretending
They aren't there.
I look to the future and, for
The first time I see nothing.
Not you, or me, or anyone else.
Swirling silver and white
With no definite borders or contours
Is all our futures hold.
The relief of a blank future
That we can fill in as we choose
Has soothed my soul
And stopped my hand on the page.
My hand returns to page and
I can again express the worry and
The guilt and
The doubt and
The fear.
My words are a sign that
There is something in need of diagnosis.
What is our diagnosis?
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
I loved you,
That winter,
As the wind,
Whipped cold my dessert clothes.
I loved you,
That winter,
As my soles,
Slapped the hard, white linoleum.
I loved you,
That winter,
As I lay,
Uncomfortable with the leak.
I loved you,
That winter,
As you lay,
In a shallow pool of my disappointment.
I loved you,
That winter,
As it turns,
To spring I love you still.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
I speak to you
Empty, you say
Staring at my words
That I so filled with me
You speak to me
Shallow, empty words
And I drink them in
And savor every one
Of them for themselves
And again
I speak to you
Nothing, you say
Nothing to my words
That I filled with me
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
New emotions and subsequent consequences;
Erroneous actions and blatant deceit.
My expressions of needing to express;
I am no poet.
No artist, no actor, no theologian.
I play pretend.
Pretentious plays on playing; performing.
I see, I read, I hear.
I replay, I reproduce.
I produce.
Stop production.
I make garbage.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
Softly your words cross to me
And hard they strike me down.
Defeating me; my love,
Who I dream of,
Through green and yellow mists,
Never to return.
New dusks bring new dreams,
But you, my love,
Strike me down, never softly.
Again, green and yellow mists,
And you, my love,
Never to return.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 8:42 PM UTC