call me - crazy - ****** insane!
but I believe in the rising sun
the hidden secret a gem (the necessity)
as it scales the sky - expansive space - each day
and maybe I alone hold on to the stars
the plastic shapes that glow in the dark
clinging to the ends of the sticky tack
so old that they've started to fall down ((shooting stars -
do my wishes count?))
or the fireballs of gas so high up there in the world unknown
they might as well be theoretical
isn't everything theoretical then? if theoretical is just the next uncertainty?
how I wish there were answers to the theoretical then there'd be truth and validity and reason and rhyme -
but no. they call me insane, after all.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
I wish
that each day would
pass faster
so that we’d watch a collection
of sunrises and sunsets,
hurtling towards things unseen –
shadows of temptation and dreams
extending tendrils (there’s hope!)
I watch the clouds during
the day and the stars at
night and wish I could
one day
fly among them
(instead I sit on the floor
under my window, feet
tucked under, and watch, thinking
of roads that lead to dead ends
and those that lead to forks
(and the split roads and split thoughts
and all things that lead to divides called
options.))
But yet –
at the same time,
I wish
that each day would
pass more slowly
taking time to trace each
dizzying circle and elliptical,
numbers that leave me behind
in lessons unheard –
because for numbers, some stories
end, and some never end,
infinities that stretch beyond
paper lines and minds alike,
and maybe we all fall in
someplace within the stories of numbers.
At night the wind picks up
in shrieking wails, and the
little voices creep in, wondering if
the day had been used up
like each drop of sunlight
had been worth it, the darkness
squeezing out the
value of it all –
and maybe then the room will stop spinning.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Sometimes
I look up at the moon and pretend
that you're looking up too, smiling back
at me, like nothing ever changed.
- that you still only remember the good
and laugh at the funny, your aftershave
lingering on my sweater after
you pulled away
- that you'd still brush the crumbs from your lap
of the cookie we shared,
bathing in the morning sunlight
of the park the quiet morning,
telling stories that
mingled with the rays
- that you look back at the drafts of
the letters you wrote me,
six neon pages of painstakingly
handwritten loops, and remember my
giggles when I had read the letter
a hundred miles away but hearing your voice
so closely in my ear, whispering
each word
Tonight the moon is no different -
He doesn't know how things have changed.
But I do, and yet I pretend,
staring intently up into the night sky,
like nothing ever changed.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Gray skies frown from above,
Watching the sparse, frozen ground
Scattered with ice, snow and salt:
The remnants of a winter storm past.
A fallen tree lies among the ice
Branches sagging under the weight
Of Death, threatening to overtake.
A snowflake falls,
Small and delicate
Swirling through the air
To settle on the branches
Of Death’s tree.
It begins a trend
With more following suit
All flying through the cold air
Drifting on the wind gusts
And landing softly, silently,
Next to the first,
Blanketing the tree
Death has claimed
And covering the evidence
Of darkness from the world.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
In the night
Darkness swallows things
Whole,
And it's cold
Everywhere.
In the night
The world is empty,
A cruel place
Of hardship and trial
In the night
No living creature stirs,
And all
Seems to have been
Painted, in a frame
Of a life not created
By a trembling hand.
In the night
Silence flies rampant
Teasing the tendrils of
Dreams
That spill forth,
The effortless product of
Imagination.
In the night
My pen comes to life
Perfecting its
Loopy handwriting
Under the cover
Of a tiny light.
In the night
I listen for the
Rampant silence,
Broken only
By my raspy breaths,
Sharp inhalations
Of harsh, forced,
Vital air.
In the night
I am alive.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
When I’m in a Mood,
my desk becomes my haven.
My creaky chair makes all
the noises I cannot express
I turn the mirror away
So I can avoid looking
Directly at myself.
I turn off the light
And sit, tracing the indented
Patterns on my desk.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
You think
Too Much –
The comments fly,
sting,
punch,
bite.
As if you are always
Worse than you are –
You are Fine –
Fine?
What defines Fine?
Average, the usual –
The arrow’s slow trek
around the clock,
unblinking, relentless.
Endless.
Too Much?
The water is rising
just over the rim,
peeking at me,
daring me
to spill over.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
from the shadows, the attention is deafening.
overwhelming.
suffocating.
in the shadows, the dark is calm,
welcoming,
away from the bright lights.
spotlights are only for those who seek them.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Bright plastic colors
stand out sharply
from the earthy brown and greens.
They don’t blend in
cleanly to the forest
foliage. Faded from the
sun, slightly sunken
into the ground
with age, the playground
hides in the shadows,
yearning for new faces
and fresh excitement.
But when the wind
blows, the old structure
shudders and groans,
whispering of ghosts
of children past.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC